The Cost of Forgetting You

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Delilah

Henry Ridgefield has left you a voicemail.

I stare at the notification. For a moment I’m convinced I’m imagining things. But even after I reach for my glass of water and swallow enough to drench the Sahara my mouth has become, the words still read the same.

Unbelievable. My father hasn’t left me a voicemail since my eighteenth birthday.

The memory pulses through my mind. It’d been a year since the affair. A year since Mom and I packed up and moved to South Carolina to live with her parents. My phone rang as the smoke from the candles on my cake was still dissipating. I hadn’t picked up, of course. I never answered any of his calls. That didn’t stop him from making them, though.

Until the letter.

The letter that pulled the wayward string on our already threadbare relationship. I’d written it as a therapy exercise. Filled it with the anger and betrayal previously sealed up in the mausoleum of my heart. After all, I never allowed myself to be angry. Mom was angry. She had every right to be. It was my job to be calm. Levelheaded. I was a lifeboat in tumultuous waters. It was all I could do to keep us both afloat.

I poured my whole heart onto those pages. Questions I never allowed myself to ask came tumbling out. Line after line of Why did you do this? and Why did I have to be the one to pick up the pieces when you did?

The letter sat on my dresser for months, addressed but not stamped. I didn’t know if I even wanted to send it. My therapist, the one my grandparents paid for after Mom and I moved in with them, said mailing it wasn’t the point. It was just about getting it out. About setting a little bit of the weight down.

It was Mom who made that decision for me. Mom, who liked to borrow my clothes. We wore the same size in everything, right down to our tiny size 6 shoes. I suppose she saw the letter on one of her routine closet raids. Or during one of her late-night venting sessions. It wasn’t even the letter I realized was missing, but his voicemails.

“ Dad hasn’t called in three weeks, ” I’d mused over dinner. I was separating the peas from my pot pie with one of Grandma’s real silver forks. Everything in their house was fancier than it needed to be. Certainly fancier than the things we’d left behind in Alabama.

Mom hadn’t even looked up. “ I guess he got your letter. ”

“ My letter? ” Panic like a lightning strike hit my chest.

“ Oh, honey, ” she sighed, finally glancing my way. “ I knew you’d never do it yourself, and I wanted to help. Now you see what I’ve been telling you all along. He never really cared about either of us. He was waiting to be let off the hook—and he finally has been. ” She deposited a large piece of beef into her mouth. It was only partially chewed when she added, “ We’re on our own, Delilah. Just you and me. But it’s good, because we’re free to have whatever life we want. He can’t hold us back anymore. ”

The truth was, I didn’t know that I wanted a life outside of the one we’d had with Dad, but I knew better than to say as much. I couldn’t even find it in me to be angry with her for mailing it, since the lack of notifications had already proven her right about one thing. I was on my own.

He didn’t call again. Not until today.

My thumb hovers over the PLAY button. Do I want to know? Do I even care what he has to say after so many years of silence?

Later, I decide. There’s no time limit on it. He’s given me nothing all these years. The least I deserve is a few hours to process.

“Who are you texting?” Mom asks.

Anxiety bursts like a bubble in my chest. I quickly swipe up and swap back to the screen I was on when his phone call came through. I stared at his name—I’d long since swapped out Dad with Henry —while it rang and rang and rang, finally disappearing, just for the voicemail notification to pop up in its place.

“I’m not.” I unravel my legs and stretch them out under the dining table. The thin gingham tablecloth brushes my thighs. I do my best to look nonchalant when I feel anything but.

Just as I knew she would, Mom kicks her ballet flats off to the left of the archway and pads across the tile to stand behind me. She peers over my shoulder, her breath tickling my neck. “Apartments? Why are you looking at apartments?”

I glance at the Zillow listings on my screen and pinch a sigh off with my lips. Uncertainty takes root in my stomach. I had a laundry list of good reasons for this potential move before Dad’s phone call derailed my train of thought. Now I’m grasping at straws.

“I don’t know, Mom…maybe because I’m twenty-six years old?” I clear my throat. “I make enough money, and with me working from home, it might be easier?—”

“But we have so much space here.” She steps back and gestures broadly to my grandparents’ house. “ I’m here. And you don’t make that much money. You really wanna waste it on an apartment and leave me all alone?”

Her voice enters familiar territory—wary and a little bit desperate. It’s the same tone she used with the letter. With my college applications. With anything and everything that’s ever threatened to put more than an inch of space between us since we left Dad.

Before that, she hardly wanted to be around me. I guess having our lives upended really put things into perspective for her. And since my grandparents passed, I’m all she has left. Me and her wayward sister, Helen, whose whereabouts volley between Who the fuck knows? and Who the fuck wants to know? on the regular.

There’s a soft click as I lock my phone. “It’s not that.”

Her hands find the curve of her hips. “Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing at all, Mom.” The sigh is halfway out of my lungs before I can think better of it. Her penciled-in eyebrows lift. The shade is a bit dark for her blonde hair but perfect for my own mouse-brown waves. She must’ve swiped it from my makeup bag this morning while I was still sleeping.

We stare at each other, twin hazel gazes communicating in a language only years spent up each other’s asses can forge. Deep down I’m sure she at least has an inkling why I want space. I also know that she’ll never be ready for it.

And we both know who’ll win the battle today.

Her already thin lips pinch together. I rise from the wooden dining chair my grandfather carved by hand, my back muscles screaming in protest.

“I’ve got another meeting in five minutes.” I scoop my half-eaten sandwich from the table and start toward the staircase. Its grandiose presence dominates the foyer at the front of the house, which is separated from the kitchen by an arched threshold. I have the entire upstairs level to myself, in this house which has always been too big and yet not big enough.

“But I thought we’d have lunch together.” She joins me in the archway, the in-between, and points to a white paper bag with her favorite sub shop’s logo sitting on the console table in the foyer. “I came home on my break just to spend time with you. We haven’t seen each other much this week.”

That was intentional , I want to say. But like so much else, I keep it to myself. Lately I find my patience with her wearing so thin, the artificially rose-colored veil over my eyes when it comes to her all but disappearing. But I’m not ready for an all-out war, which is what I’d have on my hands if I ever told her how I’m feeling.

Her down-turned eyes only serve to emphasize the pout she’s sporting. Mine may be colored the same as hers, but they’re shaped like Dad’s, early onset crow’s feet and all. Something she’s always suggesting a new cream to fix.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t skip this meeting. Maybe dinner instead?”

She drops the pity party, realizing it’s not working out the way she’d like. Suddenly her pinkie nail becomes the most interesting thing in the room, demanding her full attention. “I’m actually going out for margaritas with some of the ladies from work.”

“Well.” I glance over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. Two minutes to get upstairs and logged in. “Have fun with that.”

“You’ll pick me up, right?”

My gaze flickers back to her. The eyebrow pencil really isn’t doing her any favors. “Yep. Have an extra margarita for me.”

She winks, oblivious to my tone. “I have the best daughter.”

I offer a tight-lipped smile and return to my tower.

My phone taunts me the entire afternoon.

By my third meeting, I’ve lost all ability to focus. The clients I’m supposed to be training are having to repeat their questions twice for me to finally register what they’re asking. There’s a tension headache building at my temples. When my vision goes blurry, I block off the last hour of the day and close my laptop.

My gaze catches on my thumb as I do it. The cuticle is angry and bleeding where I’ve chewed it raw.

I glance at my phone again, and anxiety bubbles to the surface once more. No one calls after eight years to chat about the economy. Whatever my dad has to say to me, it’s bad. I don’t know how I know, but I do. It’s the kind of sixth sense you only develop after the rug’s been pulled from beneath you once before. The knowledge that it can, and most likely will, happen again.

Just rip the Band-Aid off. I tap on the notification.

“ Hi, sweet pea, it’s Dad. ”

I hit pause so hard the phone flies off my desk and falls screen first on the beige carpet. Guilt slaps me across the face. What would Mom think if she knew about this? Even listening to his voice feels like betrayal.

My heart lodges in my throat. The tip of my nose burns. I need air.

The window groans in protest as I pry it open for the first time in months. It may be spring everywhere else in the country, but in South Carolina it’s already sweltering. Living on the outskirts of Charleston, we’re close enough to the marshes that a salty breeze pushes that warm air against my face. I drink it in like water.

All the while I’m wishing for a different breeze, carrying the heady scent of a river and magnolia blooms and the Parkers’ farm in the distance. I haven’t allowed myself this yearning in so long. It’s all I can do not to stumble beneath the weight of it.

Sweet pea.

I was eighteen the last time he called me that, and suddenly I am eighteen again. Hot tears streak my cheeks; sticky snot fills the hollow above my upper lip. I feel so incredibly small. I feel like somebody’s child, and I can’t remember the last time I felt that way.

A deep, shuddering breath. An exhale that lasts five seconds. Rinse and repeat.

I glance over my shoulder. The fading sunlight reflects off the back of my phone. I want to know what he has to say, and yet I’m so ashamed to want it.

Because Mom was right. He never called again. How do you give up so easily on your child? The words in that letter were harsh, yes, but they were never meant to be read. I was angry and confused, living in a world that had been turned upside down on a dime. A world where the one person I thought I knew best became someone I didn’t even recognize.

Even so, he could’ve tried. He could’ve reached out. But he didn’t. So why, after all this time, should I care what he has to say?

Another deep breath. This time when I exhale, I send all my expectations out with the air. If you don’t want anything, it can’t be taken away. Without hope, there’s no disappointment.

I kneel by the desk and flip my phone over. The screen lights up. The voicemail is still paused where I left it. I sink my teeth into my lower lip and press play.

“ I’m sorry to call after all this time. I wanted to give you space like you asked. I wanted… Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m just sorry. I wish…I wish I had some better news, but the doctors… Things are getting worse. Not better. And you’re my next of kin, sweet pea, so I needed to let you know that I’m sick ? — ”

I hit pause again. The phone screen blurs. What started as simple tears dissolves into full-blown sobbing. Sick? How could he be sick? He’s forty-five years old, for Christ’s sake.

I was supposed to have more time .

More time to be angry. To be resentful if I feel like it. To actually figure out what the fuck I want without Mom’s opinions overshadowing any of my own. Time to start over.

When I press play again, my finger trembles.

“ It’s called fronto…fron…ah, hell. ” There’s the sound of papers shuffling in the background, followed by a distant voice. My dad mutters something to the person before speaking into the receiver. “ I can’t remember what it’s called, and that’s the whole problem. I have what Nana had. I’ve just got a head start, I guess. ”

My mind finishes what he couldn’t. Frontotemporal dementia . My heart stops, and it’s all I can do to hold on to the phone with my shaking hand.

Nana, my dad’s mother, passed away when I was eight years old. She lived with us at first, but most of my memories of her come after, when she had already moved to a memory care facility. By that time she no longer knew who we were. She was young to have dementia, they told me. But she was still in her sixties. Ancient to a little kid.

Not like my dad.

“ I just wanted to tell you I love you. And that I’m sorry for…for so much. That’s all. You don’t have to do anything for me. I’m getting it all figured out. Well, me and that Parker boy…Truett. You remember him? ”

Truett’s face flashes in my mind. A million iterations. All the ways I’ve known him. He’s six and gap-toothed and dressed like a superhero for the school trunk-or-treat. He’s twelve and skinning his knee from attempting a jump on his bike. He’s just shy of seventeen and kissing me beneath a willow tree. Then two weeks later, he’s turning his head, pretending not to see me crying in a field of cruel teenagers.

That movement—my oldest friend, my first love, refusing to even bear witness. It cut deeper than the others ever could .

My cheeks heat. Why is Truett Parker of all people helping out my dad?

“ Anyway, I love you. I always have, Delilah. And I… I’d love to see you. But if I don’t hear from you, I’ll understand. Just wanted to be the one to tell you. Be good, sweet pea. Always be good. ”

A stilted, robotic voice lets me know I can press one to play the message again or press two to delete it. I choose neither. I just stare at the phone until the screen goes dark, mind racing yet staying stock-still all at once.

I don’t know how much time passes with me kneeling on the floor. Enough that my tears dry and the carpet permanently imprints on my knees. Enough that my phone lights up once more, this time with my mom’s face plastered across the screen.

“Hello,” I croak, my voice fractured from disuse.

“Delilah, can you come get us?” A fit of giggles fills my ear. I jerk the phone away to spare my hearing. “Debbie and I are a bit tipsy.”

That knot in my throat grows larger. I peel myself off the ground and swallow hard. This is real life. I’m not in a dream. I have to act normal when nothing feels normal anymore.

I can do this. I can take care of my mom when my whole world has just fallen apart beneath me. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“On my way.”

“Thank you!” she singsongs. I hang up as they dissolve into laughter once more.

Debbie lives on the opposite side of town, so thirty minutes pass before my mother and I are alone in the car together. She adjusts my right air vent to face her, adding to the two already on her side. “Good Lord, it’s already so hot out and it’s only May.”

Sweat beads at my temples. Collects in the bends of my arms. I think about making small talk. I really do. But the minute I open my mouth to comment on the weather, out slips, “Dad’s sick.”

Her hand pauses over the temperature dial. I feel her gaze land on my face, but keep mine trained on the asphalt ahead.

“Well.” She wets her lips audibly. “I didn’t know you were in contact with Henry.”

“I wasn’t,” I say too quickly. I shift in my seat. “I’m not. He left me a voicemail today.”

Silence grows taut between us. It takes three stoplights before she replies with simply, “Oh.”

“He’s really sick.” I turn on the blinker for our street. It’s more of a gravel path than anything, with only my grandparents’ house at the end of it. “It sounds like he has what Nana did.” I can’t bring myself to say the word dementia. It feels too raw. Too real.

I expect her to ask anyway. To want that clarification. Part of me even thinks she’ll burst into tears the way I did. After all, they were married for seventeen years. How it ended doesn’t change the fact that for a time he was the center of our world.

“You know you don’t have to go, right?”

My head snaps toward her. I blink twice, not quite comprehending.

“Don’t look at me like that. After everything he did to us?—"

“To you,” I interject without thinking. My fingertips land on my lips, not quite believing they actually formed those words.

“What did you say?”

She’s giving me a chance to course correct. I could lie right now, and we’d both go on pretending the words never slipped out of me in the first place. But I’m so tired all of a sudden. Tired of being angry for both of us.

“After what he did to you. He cheated on you , Mom.” Not me, I want to add. But this much I can hold back.

We’re parked in front of the house. My headlights illuminate the colonial-style home that’s older than both of us combined. It looks more like a museum than a place where two women live. It feels like one, too.

“How could you say something like that to me?” Her voice pitches up, then warbles at the end. She’s going to start crying. And I’m going to end up cleaning up the mess.

A heavy sigh passes over my lips. It’s not worth it to argue with her. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Her lips thin. She’s studying my face, searching for something. I smile, weary as I am, and she returns it. Content to believe the fragile facade I’ve presented.

She reaches out and strokes my cheek with the back of her hand. Her knuckles are cold. The ornate gold ring she inherited when her mother passed scrapes my skin lightly.

I wince, but she’s already turning to open her door.

“Glad that’s settled.” She retrieves her purse from the floorboard and steps out into the night. She doesn’t wait for a response before closing the door. She’s never had to wonder if I’ll do as she asks.

But as I watch her foot land on the first step of the wide staircase leading up to the porch, I feel something shift within myself. For the first time in so long, I imagine my dad sitting on a different front porch. His Converse scuff against the wooden floorboards, kicking him into motion on the swing he put in for my mom the year his mother moved into the nursing home. I hear cows in the distance. Sweat beads on my forehead. When I step in front of him, he turns, but his gaze shows no sign of recognition.

“I’m going,” I whisper, surprising myself. Because deep down, I know I mean it, even if it’s the one thing my mother could never understand. The one thing she could never forgive.

Because if I stay, I may never forgive myself. And shouldn’t that matter more?