Chương 11
My reflection in the metal doors surprised me.
I looked older too.
Not dramatically.
Just less willing to explain myself.
The neurologic unit was quieter than the lobby.
I saw Lily first.
She was standing near a vending machine holding the blue box against her chest.
When she noticed me, her face changed so quickly I looked away.
She came toward me.
I expected a hug.
She stopped three feet short.
“You came.”
“I came.”
Her eyes were red.
“Dad’s awake.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“No.”
“Mom?”
“No.”
“Josh?”
“He’s in the room.”
I looked at the box.
“Let me see it.”
She handed it over.
It was heavier than I expected.
The blue paint had chipped around the corners.
The lock showed fresh scratches.
“Josh.”
“I know.”
The masking tape looked old.
Not two years old.
Older.
The edges were yellowed.
I ran my thumb near my name without touching the ink.
“This has been labeled a long time.”
Lily stared at it.
“You’re right.”
“How long has Dad had this?”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“Where was it?”
“Top shelf in his workshop cabinet.”
“Behind some paint cans.”
“Josh found it exactly where Dad said.”
I looked at her.
“He was able to tell Josh that?”
“Before the second stroke.”
“So he wasn’t confused when he asked for it.”
“No.”
A door opened down the hall.
Josh stepped out.
He stopped when he saw me.
For a second, neither of us moved.
He looked thinner than I remembered.
There was gray in his beard now.
Then he walked toward me.
“You look like shit.”
I stared at him.
“That’s your opening?”
“I panicked.”
“Clearly.”
He glanced at the box.
“You got it.”
“I’m protecting it from you.”
“I deserved that.”
“Yes.”
He shoved both hands into his pockets.
“Mom’s in the cafeteria.”
“How long?”
“No idea.”
“She went because Lily said she needed food.”
“I manipulated her.”
Lily said it almost proudly.
Josh nodded.
“She told Mom the cafeteria had soup.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
For the first time since landing, I laughed.
It came out too loud for the hallway.
A nurse looked over.
I lowered my voice.
“Where’s Dad?”
Josh’s expression changed.
“Room 714.”
I looked toward the door.
My legs did not move.
Lily shifted beside me.
“You don’t have to go in immediately.”
“I know.”
Josh looked like he wanted to say something.
“Don’t.”
He closed his mouth.
I sat in one of the hallway chairs with the box on my knees.
The vinyl cushion squeaked beneath me.
Across from us, an older man slept with his chin against his chest while a woman beside him worked a crossword puzzle.
Normal hospital waiting.
Normal private disasters.
Josh leaned against the wall.
After a minute, I said, “Tell me about the letter.”
Lily looked at him.
Josh rubbed the back of his neck.
“I already told you what I remember.”
“Tell me again.”
He sighed.
“Dad wrote it to Mom.”
“When?”
“Date at the top said March.”
“Which March?”
“Last year.”
“That’s after I left.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Josh looked toward Dad’s room.
“He said he was tired of letting her pretend the story was true.”
“What story?”
“That you were an accident.”
“Those exact words?”
“Pretty close.”
“Pretty close isn’t exact.”
“I wasn’t memorizing it.”
“You had a year to mention it.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t know what it meant.”
“You could’ve asked.”
“You blocked me.”
“Email exists.”
“Mom asked me not to.”
There it was again.
I stared at him.
“You keep saying that like you were twelve.”
His face changed.
“I know how old I am.”
“Then why did Mom asking settle it?”
“Because Dad was sick before the stroke.”
Lily turned toward him.
“What?”
Josh looked at her.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“What do you mean sick?”
I asked.
He rubbed both palms down the front of his jeans.
“He’d been having headaches.”
“Since when?”
“Months.”
“He went to a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They thought blood pressure.”
“You said Mom knew?”
“Yes.”
Lily looked furious.
“You never told me.”
“Because it wasn’t supposed to be serious.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
Josh looked at me.
“Apparently it runs in the family.”
That almost became an argument.
Instead, I said, “The letter.”
He nodded.
“Dad wrote that he started calling you the accident after some fight with Mom.”
“What fight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he say?”
“Not on the page I saw.”
“What else?”
Josh stared at the floor.
“He wrote that he had punished you for something you didn’t do.”
The hallway seemed to narrow.
Lily sat beside me.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Josh sounded miserable now.
“He said it was easier to make a joke out of you than admit what he was angry about.”
“With Mom?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I gripped the handle of the box.
“Did he say he regretted it?”
Josh looked at me.
“Yes.”
That word hurt more than I expected.
“What exactly?”
“He wrote that every time he said it, you smiled.”
My mouth went dry.
Josh’s voice dropped.
“He said he kept telling himself that meant you didn’t care.”
Nobody spoke.
“He wrote that after you disappeared, he finally understood what the smile was.”
I looked down at the scratched blue lid.
“What was it?”
Josh swallowed.
“He called it permission.”
I didn’t understand.
Josh continued.
“He said you were giving him permission to keep hurting you because you were trying to make everybody comfortable.”
The old man across the hallway stirred in his sleep.
The woman beside him erased something from her crossword.
I stared at my own name on the masking tape.
Dad had seen it.
Maybe too late, but he had seen it.
Lily wiped her eyes.
Josh looked away.
I said, “Why did Mom take the letter?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have asked.”
May you like
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
