“Definitely, thanks, Alistair,” Miller replied.
I watched Miller take a seat, as if already invited, at the kitchen table. If it had been anyone else, I think it would have annoyed me. He seemed very much at home. Even Lucy rose and placed her head on his thigh for a petting.
Dad placed the tea on the table and I sat opposite Miller. Whether it was the fact he’d gotten soaked himself, or maybe, since I hadn’t been able to speak, I’d become more aware of facial expression, but sadness seemed to radiate from him. He smiled, he laughed at something Dad had said, but it felt forced to me. He wasn’t as natural as he normally was. His shoulders were a little slumped. I had to pull myself up, though. I’d only met him a handful of times. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to ask if he was okay.
Thunder rumbled overhead and the rain lashed against the windows. Miller drank down his tea and stood.
“I really should get going,” he said, looking out the window at the deteriorating weather.
“Why not wait, have dinner with us? The rain might ease up by then,” Dad said.
“Thank you, but I really need to go. Another time, for sure.”
Miller smiled at me as he walked to the back door. I noticed the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“He didn’t seem himself, did he?” Dad said, as he closed the door behind Miller.
I thought that, I wrote.
Dad gathered up the cups and walked to the sink. Although we had a dishwasher, he rarely used it.
“I like him, there’s something a little tragic about him. Heard he’d had some trouble a year or so ago,” Dad said.
I wrote, What kind of trouble?
I rose and stood beside Dad, showing him my pad.
“I don’t know what caused it, but he had a bit of drink problem, at one point. That was according to Mrs. Hampton. Mind you, she’s a terrible gossip. I didn’t ask why.”
I didn’t think any more on what Dad had said. I decided to take a shower; I was still sitting in wet jeans and socks.
The smell of roast chicken wafted up to my room. Dad had limited cooking skills, and I wondered if he made more of an effort to cook a proper meal because I was there. I was sure that, when he lived on his own, he’d snacked more than cooked a full meal. I dressed in my pyjamas and headed downstairs.
I laid the table while Dad dished up our meal. A wave of guilt washed over me, I’d been waited on since I’d arrived and it wasn’t fair. Dad chatted throughout the meal, just village gossip, what the weather was going to be like for the next few days, and his worry about Lucy, the dog. It was nice to listen to him; it was awful not to be able to participate.
I think it’s time to see that specialist you talked about, I wrote, shoving the pad towards him.
The smile that he gave had me feeling terrible that I hadn’t agreed before then. He left his meal and walked to the hall. He returned with a handful of leaflets.
“I did some research, on the interweb. We have to start with the doctor making a referral, of course. If you’re sure, and I don’t want to pressure you, but I can ring the doctor in the morning.”
I chuckled at his term, ‘interweb.’ I nodded as he handed the leaflets over. It looked like he’d printed all sorts off the Internet. I placed them to one side and finished my meal. I’d take a read through after dinner.
It was as I was stacking the dishwasher that the lights started to flicker. Without worrying, I reached into a drawer and pulled out a pack of candles. It was quite usual for the power to be knocked out in a bad storm, and with the wind and rain causing havoc outside, it was going to be one of the worst we’d experienced in a while.
I lit the bottom of each candle melting a little wax before sticking them to some saucers I’d found. Although Dad had an array of ornaments around the house, candleholders weren’t among them.
“I lit the fire, just in case the heating goes off,” Dad said, taking a candle into the living room with him.
We sat in the living room, the TV was off and Dad, being the storm expert, powered down his computer. He told me about his theory on power surges destroying his information. I wondered what information he had stored on the computer.
“Sit with me, Dani. You’re not too old for a cuddle from your old dad, are you?”
I smiled as I curled up next to him; he placed his arm around my shoulders.
“How do you feel, darling? What don’t you tell me?”
His questions surprised me. I didn’t have a pad or pencil to hand. He tightened his grip on me.
“I think you blame yourself. When you were unconscious, you mumbled an apology over and over. I’m guessing that was to Trey. But you have nothing to apologise for. What happened wasn’t even a tragic accident, it was bloody…”
His body had tensed and I felt him take a deep breath in as if trying to calm himself. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the word I thought he was about to use. It was a word that had run through my mind over and over. I placed my hand on his chest and rested my head on his shoulder. He gripped my hand tightly.
“I didn’t know if I was going to lose you, as well. I’m not sure you agree with the decision I had to make but, for me, there wasn’t a choice. I couldn’t run the risk of you dying, Dani, can you understand that?”
I nodded my head against his shoulder.
“I thought you’d hate me. I agonised over that choice and what little time I had to come to it was brutal. Every night since then, I’ve dreamt of a different scenario. I can’t apologise for making the decision I did, maybe you would have chosen differently, but I needed my baby to survive. Does that make me terribly selfish?”
I raised my head so I could look into his eyes and I shook my head. I mouthed the word, ‘No.’ It was important to me that he knew I understood that he’d made the best decision he could, in the time he was given. Would I have done the same had I been him? Without a shadow of doubt.
The power went out, leaving us sitting in a room lit only by candles and the flames of a log fire.
“If it’s okay with you, I think I might head to bed. I feel quite tired today,” Dad said.
I raised my head from his shoulder and let him stand. He looked down at me, placing his palm on my cheek. He didn’t speak, but I saw his shoulders heave as if a great sigh was about to leave his lips. He smiled.
“Don’t stay up too late, you need your sleep, too,” he said.
With that, he left the room. I curled into the edge of the sofa; comforted by the warmth he’d left behind. My dad had aged considerably. Trey and Hannah’s deaths weighed heavily on his shoulders; I could see that. It must have been awful for him. He, and possibly Christian, would have been the only ones at the hospital until Patricia arrived. What an awful sight for them to have to face.
I sat for a while, just watching the flames flicker in the fireplace. Their dance was mesmerising, the logs crackled as if playing a tune. The flames created shadows across the inside of the chimney and the rug in front of the hearth. I loved the sound and smell of a real fire. I made a mental note to add at least a log burner on the list of things I wanted in the barn.
The thought of converting the barn excited me and I wasn’t sure I should feel excited. A tear ran down my cheek when I thought of how Trey would have loved to do what I was doing. He would have taken over and I inwardly chuckled at the rows we would have had. It had been a nightmare when we'd bought the house in London. Our tastes were so different; the only compromise was to have a room each to design. He hated my stainless steel and high-tech kitchen; I loathed his wood panelled, ruby red-walled den. We were so different that we worked. It hadn’t always been easy, yet we’d had some amazing times together. A pang of loss hit me between the chest and I sucked in a deep breath.
I grabbed a pad and pen and wrote. It seemed to be that whenever the loss and grief started to overwhelm, my coping mechanism was to write to Lincoln.