Chapter 12
B y Monday morning, my father was better than he’d been in a long time—it was as if that infusion had turned back the clock at least two or three years.
So while we ate breakfast, I said, “Don’t overdo it, dad. I know you feel like you could run a marathon, but pace yourself.”
He laughed heartily.
“Sweetheart, I couldn’t have done that even when I was your age.”
“You know what I mean. I’m so glad you feel good—but you still wear out easily. So, like, if you want to take a walk, don’t go six blocks and then realize you don’t have the energy to come back home. Walk to the corner and back.”
“I don’t think I can do that yet—but I might try cleaning up the backyard a bit. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to putter around.” Fortunately, when I was in high school, he’d been all about creating a xeriscaped yard, so in the back, we had a lot of native plants and flowers that didn’t need to be watered, save what came from the sky.
Of course, the weeds always seemed to thrive as well—and, once dad got so sick that he couldn’t do as much as he used to, I always made sure the weeds were taken care of out front, but I couldn’t always get to the back.
“Okay—but still…be careful, okay? Please text me once in a while so I know you’re all right.”
“I will—and you need to text me to let me know you made it back up there safely.”
He was, of course, talking about Denver.
We’d talked about it yesterday afternoon when it became evident he was doing pretty well.
He was definitely in better shape than he’d been when I’d gone to Denver the first time.
“I promise.” Getting up, I rinsed off my plate and poured out the last few drops of coffee into the sink.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to wash these dishes?”
“Heavens no. They’ll be waiting when you come back for my next treatment.”
I turned back around, ready to tell him that was ridiculous, but his grin stretched from ear to ear.
Smiling back, I made a mental note that I’d have to thank the staff at the clinic profusely for doing such good for my dad.
“I’m telling you…I can do this. I’m looking forward to it. I never would have thought I’d enjoy doing dishes, but I need to get back in the habit of standing for more than thirty seconds at a time.”
“Yes, but please don’t overdo it.”
“I told you I won’t.”
Nodding, I realized I was probably being overbearing—but I was worried about leaving him again.
I had to keep reminding myself that I’d be back in less than two weeks to take him to his next appointment and care for him for the few days after.
“Okay. Anyway…you’ve got several meals in the freezer. Just thaw and heat them.” Not only was there more lasagna, but I’d also made a shepherd’s pie and tater tot casserole—two more of dad’s favorites—and divvied them up into meal-size portions.
My mind shifting to Denver, I wondered if Sinclair had ever eaten a tater tot.
Dad stood.
“Let me walk you out.”
“That’s okay.”
“I want to.”
As we walked from the kitchen to the living room, I marveled at how much faster he was moving.
Although he was still using the walker, it was evident that he had so much more energy.
Picking up the one suitcase I’d packed to take back, I walked through the door, holding it for my father to follow.
But, on the patio, he said, “Maybe I’d better stop here.”
“That’s okay. If you decide you can’t go to the store when you need something, let me know and we’ll set up delivery.”
Although he nodded, I could see in his eyes that he didn’t plan on doing anything of the sort.
I imagined he liked riding those motorized carts through the store—but maybe there would come a day when he could walk through the aisles unaided again.
“Thank you for preparing the meals—and for doing the laundry.”
“I was happy to do it, dad.”
“Oh…and the clean sheets. They felt like heaven.”
I hugged him, trying to push back more tears.
“It was my pleasure.” I knew I’d see him again soon, but I was torn between two worlds now—and even though I loved people in both, I was certain I would never be whole again in either place.
When I returned to the mansion, Greg greeted me in the alley just as Sinclair had promised.
Although he’d offered to park the car for me, I wanted to try doing it myself, so he wound up guiding me in.
But I was glad I’d practiced, because even though it was a little tricky, I realized I just had to get used to it.
It felt a lot like maneuvering into a tight parking space.
Of course, Sinclair wasn’t there when I arrived because it was early afternoon—but Edna actually greeted me with a hug.
Greg offered to take my suitcase to my room but I told him I would—and so after saying hello to Edna, I went upstairs.
It was the strangest feeling.
Even after being back home in a cozier, tighter space, the mansion no longer felt overwhelming.
Instead, I was overcome with a sensation of having arrived…
not home , but something so close.
It was, perhaps, a sense of belonging and being welcomed with open arms.
Even my room felt cheery and bright, and I tried not to let the melancholy slip back in, this time because I knew I wouldn’t be staying.
I wondered if Edna knew that.
Heading downstairs, I stayed dressed in jeans and a plain blue t-shirt, planning to resume my work in the dungeon, even if only for the remaining afternoon hours.
First, though, I stopped in at the kitchen to eat lunch with her, a woman who now felt like a friend I’d returned to.
“I know it’s only been a week, but it seems like you’ve been gone so much longer.”
“It does.”
“How is your father doing?”
“Better. He was in bad shape when I got there. I could tell he’d been getting worse and worse, barely able to take care of himself. So I cleaned the house, did the laundry, went shopping, and fed him. But the kicker was getting him to his treatment.”
Edna peeked in the oven as she asked, “What kind of treatment is it?”
“I don’t know how much I’ve told you about my father, but he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis when I was in my teens—but he’d been struggling with the symptoms for a few years before that. Anyway, it was manageable at first and didn’t disrupt too much of his daily life, but as the years went on, it got worse—and the past two years have really taken their toll. He has to use a walker most days and he just can’t enjoy life like he used to. It’s heartbreaking.”
“I had a cousin back east who got it. I didn’t know her well but saw her once in a while at family reunions. The last time I saw her, she was in a wheelchair. But she passed away last year—caught COVID and that was that.”
“How sad.” I was grateful my father had managed to avoid catching COVID, and he’d been one of the first to get vaccinated just in case.
“It was—but I do know she loved life. She taught literature classes at one of those Ivy League schools up until the end, and they said at her funeral that she was well-loved by students and faculty alike. You can’t ask much more out of life than to love and be loved.”
I dwelled on her last few words for far too long, but in them was wisdom of the ages—and, mingled with my father’s rendition of Tennyson’s view of how losing love was preferable to never experiencing it at all, made me think maybe it was okay that Sinclair and I would never be able to be together.
At least we would always have had our moments in time where our love burned bright.
Or, at least, mine had.
I sometimes wondered if Sinclair could feel that emotion—or, at least, if he’d felt it the same way I did.
When Edna pulled out her favorite bowls, ones with handles, from the cabinet, I asked, “Can I help with anything?”
“Get yourself something to drink—and go ahead and pull the butter out of the fridge and put it on the table. I made those crusty rolls you like.”
That was but one reminder that this woman definitely made this place feel like a home away from home.
As I opened the refrigerator door, Edna said, “You were telling me about your father—that he’d had some kind of treatment while you were there.”
“He did. It’s an infusion. His doctor recommended it and he was referred to a clinic in Colorado Springs that does it, but they were so booked up that he was scheduled three months out—so we’ve known about this appointment for a while. The clinic recommended someone come with him for at least the first treatment because of the side effects and especially not knowing how the body will react.”
“Makes sense,” Edna said, spooning something from the pot into the bowls.
“That smells good.”
“It’s something I call meatball stew. I’d never make it for Mr. Sinclair but I suspected you might appreciate it. I like to have it at least once every autumn and if you help me eat it, I won’t have to freeze any of it— if you like it, that is.”
“Based on the way it smells, I have no doubt.”
Edna handed me a basket of warm rolls.
“Please put those on the table—and set the silverware if you could.”
Nodding, I did as she asked and continued my story.
“At first, after the infusion, I thought it was either going to be a bust or that it was making him far worse. But yesterday it was like they’d wound back the clock—so he felt like he had five years ago. In fact, I had to remind him several times not to overdo it. He feels so good that he wants to catch up on projects he hasn’t touched in years.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It is. He has his second infusion scheduled for a week from Thursday and I’ll be going down for that as well.”
“How often does he have to go for that?”
“If I understand correctly,” I said, placing the silverware on the table, “after that, he only has to go twice a year.”
“And he’ll continue feeling better?”
“That’s what they say.”
“The things they come up with.”
Soon, Edna and I were seated at the table—and her stew was amazing.
It was a great way to ease me back into life at the mansion with a little taste of home.
“I know my dad would love this stew.”
Edna’s warm brown eyes twinkled.
“How about we freeze a little for you to take home next week?”
Grinning, I nodded my head, swallowing another bite—and then I grew wistful again.
If we’d stuck with the original plan and I’d been here for ten years, I probably could have asked Edna to teach me some of her culinary secrets.
After all, she hadn’t started out planning to be a cook, but she’d somehow shifted into that position with ease.
What impressed me most was how she’d not only learned to cook all the more exotic tastes Sinclair had grown up enjoying, but she knew how to make food that better suited my palate.
In short, she was a genius.
After I thanked her, we didn’t stay silent for long.
Soon, Edna said, “Mr. Whittier told me you won’t be with us much longer.”
I could see on her face all the questions—what had changed?
She wanted to know what had happened to reduce my “sentence” from ten years to less than half of one.
But I wasn’t going to tell her anything that would diminish Sinclair in her eyes—meaning I wouldn’t tell her anything about the repairs at the college—and I also didn’t want to divulge my deeper relationship with the man, especially because that would be ending when I left.
Maybe it already had.
For all I knew, beginning now, we’d be partners in business only.
Because I didn’t even know if Edna was aware that he’d driven to Winchester on Saturday, I decided to keep it as brief and ambiguous as possible.
“I believe,” I began but stopped myself right before I called him by his first name, “Mr. Whittier understands now just how sick my father really is and knows that my rightful place is with him. But we agreed that I would finish my work in the dungeon to finish paying my debt.”
“Ah…my Sinny can be such a generous man when he wants to be.”
I nodded, trying to find a way to change the subject…
but, if the truth were to be told, I could have listened to her talk about Sinclair all day.
And I awaited his arrival with bated breath.