Chapter 24
One afternoon, my father calls to me from his chair beside the fire.
“I want to talk to you about something,” he says, and I brace myself for a revelation.
“What is it, Dad?” I hold my breath. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Barred owls.” Not what I expected. “They’re beautiful, yes, but don’t let your guard down.” He grows serious and leans toward me, then snaps his fingers softly. “They can rip your face right off.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Dad.”
Midway through the month, I get an unexpected email from Gemma.
It’s been weeks since I finished my last copy project for her, and I still feel like I’m treading water financially.
Dominic’s dental bill is finally paid off, but my father’s licensing deal ends in a few weeks.
After that, all we have to live on is his pension, social security, and the modest amount I make from helping Paula with her website admin. I need more work.
The email reads:
hey mama,
the copy you wrote for us this fall was beautiful.
I would love to chat about your career progression.
It has been tough finding someone to fill your shoes.
I wonder—would you consider returning to Actualize if we gave you a new title?
Maybe your Dad could move back with you.
Would love to find a way to make it work.
xoxox
G
I can’t help but laugh at the irony. Now that I’ve relinquished my life in the city, I am finally offered the promotion I should have had two years ago.
I feel a surge of something unfamiliar. Power?
Justice? For a long time, I had regarded Gemma as my savior—the woman who plucked me from the gig economy and gave me a steady paycheck.
Now, I can’t help but delight in the turning of the tables.
She needs me. Of course, I can’t move my father to the city.
He belongs here—we both do. For a moment, I am tempted to ask if I can take the position remotely.
But the thought of going back to Actualize full-time makes my stomach twist.
Just then, I hear a frustrated grunt from the kitchen.
I set my laptop aside and go to check on my father, who is at the counter wrestling with a mango. He has hacked the poor fruit from multiple angles but made little progress in separating the flesh from the pit.
“I can’t get it off the nut!” he growls, his fingers slick with juice and pulp.
I take the knife out of his hands and reassure him, “Mangos are notoriously tricky.” I proceed to show him how to cut off one half, then the other, then make a grid and invert each half so it arches like a hedgehog.
He’s the one who taught me how to do this years ago, and now, he shakes his head in bewildered amusement. “Not in a million years would I have thought to do that.”
We eat our mango chunks by the fire as the light outside wanes, and I make a mental note to respond to Gemma later.
I will, of course, decline. Surely Gemma can find someone else to peddle her snake oil, but there is only one person who is qualified to be my father’s aide-de-camp: me.
It feels good to be needed in two places, but I am most needed here.
“You know, we better hurry up and get a Christmas tree,” I say.
“It’s only two weeks away, and Nina will be here on the eighteenth.
” She recently informed me that she will be bringing Nils, a guy who she has mentioned a few times over the course of the fall, but I didn’t realize that they had reached the point of transatlantic holiday travel.
As my life is becoming quieter, hers appears to be getting more dynamic.
“Nina…?”
“My sister,” I remind him.
“Ah, yes. The one who went to Stockholm to have a baby.”
I am so astounded he remembers the Stockholm part that I almost disregard the rest. “She went to Stockholm to have a career. Not a baby.”
“No? Maybe it’s too soon. What is the gestation for a human? Probably as much as three months.”
“Nine months. Well, actually, forty weeks.”
“Forty weeks?” He gasps. “Impossible.”
I know my father’s cognition is sliding, but it’s hard for me to track.
Sometimes he is completely cogent; other times, like now, he seems to be pulling from cached memories mixed with conjecture; and occasionally he goes quiet and seems completely lost, unable to get any kind of grip on reality.
It’s hard to witness, though I know it could be worse.
Many with his disease are plagued by panic, fear, paranoia.
My father, miraculously, still seems to have faith in the general flow of life. And he appears to trust me completely.
We sit silently as the fire settles. Dominic’s huge body is spread over my father’s lap like a blanket, and before long, both the cat and my father are asleep.
I pick up my laptop to draft what I think is a gracious reply to Gemma.
I let her know that while I cherish the memory of my years at Actualize, I am currently embroiled in an exciting new project with my father.
He is an oracle, I tell her, endowed with psychic gifts that are only growing stronger as his cognition wanes.
It’s not a lie, because I half believe it; and besides, Gemma loves this kind of stuff.
I tell her I would be happy to continue writing copy on a freelance basis, although I will have to raise my rates, given how busy I am with my new venture.
I also tell her she is welcome to come to Locust to meet the oracle, though I know she’ll never drive this far.
Still, I feel a little thrill as I hit send.
In the new world order of my imagination, Gemma will have to come to me.