“She’s not going to be mad, Dad,” I assure him as I cup his face. “Because it’s not her favorite anymore.”
His eyebrows furrow. “It’s not?”
“Because she’s not here anymore,” I tell him. “Remember?”
“She’s not here?” He looks more confused. “What do you mean she’s not here? Did she leave me? Did she finally leave me like she was threatening to?”
She threatened to?
He takes my hands off his face and starts searching the house. “Where is she? Where did she go?”
“Dad,” I call his attention. “Mom is gone.”
He looks at me. “Gone?”
I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. “She died when I was ten, remember? From heart failure?”
It’s more complicated than that. My mom went to the hospital to have a gallstone removed but her heart stopped beating on the operating table. Whether it was because someone in that room made a mistake, or because her heart was weak to begin with, or because she had some other previously undiagnosed disease, we don’t know. We never will. My dad didn’t want an autopsy.
Anyway, heart failure. That’s the simple explanation. And isn’t that what everyone ultimately dies of anyway?
“Heart failure,” my father repeats. “Right.”
The weight of the realization slowly seeping into him makes him sink into a chair. He falls silent as he stares blankly at the wall. He looks lost, crushed.
At least he’s calmed down.
I let out a sigh as I touch his shoulder. “She’s gone, Dad, but we’re fine. We’ve been fine for the past fifteen years.”
He clasps his hands beneath his chin and nods. “Right. I remember. I remember it all now. I remember her funeral like it was yesterday.”
I don’t. That day was a blur for me. Like a bad dream. I remember only bits and pieces. And the sadness. The overwhelming sadness that still makes it hard for me to breathe.
I push it away and lift my dad’s arm. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get you upstairs so you can rest.”
He glances at the porcelain fragments on the floor. “But…”
“I’ll take care of it, Dad,” I tell him. “First, we’ll take care of you.”
For a moment, he still resists, but then he stands up. He starts walking, but after a few steps, he stops and looks over his shoulder.
“Bart!” he calls.
Bart comes out of hiding to be by his side. I pat his back.
“Good dog.”
Then I realize that Copper and Dali still have their leashes on, so I take them off.
“You guys can come, too.”
We all head up the stairs. I bring my dad to his room. As he makes himself comfortable in his bed, I put The Thin Red Line on his TV. Somehow, World War II movies help him relax.
It seems to be working already. I can still see a tinge of worry among the wrinkles of his face, but the anguish is gone. Two plump pillows support his upper back and his head. Bart acts as a third beneath his arm, curled up right next to him.
I pat Bart’s head then hand my dad the remote. He takes it and my arm.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says as he looks into my eyes.
I rub the back of his hand. “You don’t have any reason to be sorry, Dad. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m causing you trouble.”
His words and the pain in his eyes make a lump form in my throat. I swallow and shake my head.
“Not as much as I’ve caused you.”
He frowns as he touches my cheek. “You’ve never caused me any trouble, Aster.”
“Not true,” I tell him. “Remember the time when I made cake and we both ended up with stomachaches?”
That makes him smile.
“Or the time I turned your pajamas pink because I put them in the washing machine with my red leggings?”
He chuckles. “I’d still wear them if they still fit.”
I pat his arm. “Now, please don’t make me remember more of my embarrassing misdeeds.”
“They were accidents,” he tells me. “You never caused me trouble on purpose.”
I shrug. “Well, the broken vase was an accident, too.”
I try to leave his side but he grabs my wrist. “I wasn’t just apologizing for the vase.”
As I look into his eyes, I understand what he’s saying. I squeeze his hand and give him a smile.
“It’s fine, Dad. Everything’s fine.”
He nods. I let go of his hand and walk away from the bed. Bart looks at me questioningly.
“Stay,” I tell him.
He doesn’t budge. Copper, too, seems settled into the rug by the bed, already falling asleep. Only Dali follows me out of the room and into mine. I know I’m supposed to go back downstairs and clean up, but right now, I need a moment.
I sit on the edge of my bed, take off my cap and let out a deep sigh. Dali sits in front of me, ears perked up.
I pat his head. “I’m fine, Dali.”