Chapter Eighteen Amanda #3
There are a dozen acerbic ways I could respond, and though I’m tempted to lash out, I resist the urge. We’re all going through hell right now, and I don’t want to fight, especially when he’s creating the perfect mix of cinnamon and sugar for my favorite kind of toast.
While I pour Oscar’s kibble into his bowl, Dad drops two slices of bread into the toaster and pushes the lever down. He then retrieves the milk from the refrigerator.
“I’ve known for a long time that your mom’s been doing everything around here to take care of you guys,” he says. “And I’ve been about as helpful as a bag of rocks.”
I slide onto a stool at the kitchen island and say nothing.
“It’s my fault this happened,” Dad says, his voice breaking. “I’m responsible.”
After everything I’ve read online, this confession from him cuts into me. I wince with discomfort, especially when his chin trembles. I’ve never seen my father cry before, and I don’t know what to say or do. So I sit there like a lump, speechless.
Dad fights to regain his composure and pours the milk, but I can’t forget the baleful sound of his grief that woke me earlier. It was the sound of deep, pure agony.
He moves to the cupboard and brings down the butter dish and two plates. The toast pops up, and I watch him butter both slices generously and use a teaspoon to carefully sprinkle the cinnamon and sugar. It melts into the hot butter, and my mouth waters. Then he cuts each slice into triangles.
He sits on the stool beside me, but we don’t speak. We pick up our toast and bite into it at the same time.
Despite the menace of this horrible day, the flavor on my tongue takes me back to my happy childhood, when I felt safe and loved and knew nothing about grief or loss. My mother was my sunshine, and my father was the steady ground beneath my feet.
But those days are long gone. I finish my toast and look at him. His elbows are perched on the island countertop, his hands clasped together, and his eyes are closed.
“Are you praying?” I ask with surprise.
“Yes. Praying for your mom. And for myself.”
I’m perplexed. “Why for yourself?”
“I’m asking for forgiveness.”
I’m jolted by his response, and all my extremities go numb. What, exactly, does he need to be forgiven for? Being a bad father? Or hurting Mom?
Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you read what people are posting on social media?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think your mom would say about it if she were sitting here right now?”
I consider that thoughtfully for a few seconds. “She’d tell you to ignore the haters. Then, if anyone crossed a line, she’d take you to the police station to file a report.”
He acknowledges this with a nod. “You’re right. That’s exactly what she would do.” He sips his milk and sets the glass back down. “Sorry I wasn’t around to help you through that bullying situation.”
I shrug a shoulder. “It’s fine. Mom took care of things, and it all worked out.” I glance down at Oscar, who’s curled up on the floor at my feet.
Dad makes an effort to keep the conversation going. “She said Jeff’s a nice guy. I’d like to meet him at some point, size him up for myself. See if he’s good enough for my favorite daughter.”
He’s trying way too hard to get on my good side, but I don’t fall for the flattery. I rub my finger across the cinnamon and sugar left on my plate and lick it. “You can give me your opinion, and I’ll consider it.”
Dad watches my profile for a moment. “I always knew you’d turn out to be a strong woman. Even as a toddler, you had a will of your own. We used to call you the Iron Lady.”
I glance up. “You did? I never knew that.”
He sits back and folds his arms. “It wasn’t something we ever said in front of you.”
“Oh, I see. It sounds like a compliment now, but at the time it was probably an insult because you hated it when I wouldn’t let up about getting a cell phone.”
“You wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he agrees, “until you finally got your way.”
I reach for my milk. “Maybe I should have listened to you, because sometimes that phone has been a curse. It must’ve been nice to grow up in the nineties, when there was no such thing as Instagram and ‘likes’ and stupid algorithms.” I sip my milk.
“This has been a hellish day,” he says, “but at least it feels good to talk to you.”
He holds out his arms, and I let him hug me like he used to do, but it’s awkward and uncomfortable. I can’t let go of what happened to Mom today, and I don’t trust Dad to ever put me and Connor ahead of his stupid restaurant.
I sit back and look down at Oscar still curled up under my stool. “We should probably get some sleep,” I say.
Dad rises and collects the plates, carries them to the dishwasher, and loads them onto the bottom rack.
“Come on, Oscar,” I say. “Let’s go back to bed.”
He sits up, stretches, and follows as I head for the stairs. I pause at the bottom and turn back to Dad. “What time should we go to the hospital in the morning?”
“As soon as we’re up,” he replies.
It’s a vague answer, and it won’t do. Clearly Dad has no idea that Connor will sleep until noon if we let him.
“I’ll set my alarm for eight and wake Connor.”
It irks me that Dad doesn’t know much about anything around here.
When my alarm goes off, it feels like I just laid my head on the pillow. I wake up exhausted and press the snooze button, but I can’t fall back to sleep because yesterday’s events descend on me like a hammer.
Mom . . . swept off the rocks at Peggy’s Cove. She’s in the hospital, in a coma, and everyone seems to think my dad pushed her.
I wish it were all just a bad dream, but it’s real, and today is the first full day of this waking nightmare.
At least the nurse didn’t call during the night. No news is good news, I tell myself.
I roll over, reach for my phone, and discover that Becky texted me at 7:40 a.m.
Good morning, sweetie. I hope you got some sleep. I’m going to cook a pot of your favorite chicken chili and put it in your fridge while you’re at the hospital. I can let myself in through the garage. Heat it up when you get home.
I’d also like to come to the hospital to visit your mom.
Just between you and me, I’m struggling because this whole situation reminds me of the day I lost my brother and almost my best friend too.
Your mom was in the hospital for a long time back then, but she survived, and that’s what I’m trying to remember—what a fighter she was, and still is.
<3 I can come to the ICU at lunchtime, if that’s okay, to give you guys a break.
And I hope things were okay at home last night. I’ve been reading all the comments on social media, and that can’t be easy for any of you. Call me if you want to talk. I’m always here for you. <3
Becky sent the messages only twenty minutes ago, so I decide to call her instead of text, because I do want to talk. I want to tell her about how I woke up in the middle of the night and heard my dad crying.
I press the call button, and Becky answers before the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” I reply. “I just woke up. I read your message about your brother, and I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, kiddo. This is rough on all of us.”
“Yeah. A pot of chili would be great,” I add. “That’s so kind of you.”
She lets out a sigh. “It’s not kindness. I need to stay busy, or I’ll lose my mind. I assume you haven’t heard anything from the hospital?”
“Nothing.” I sit forward and pat Oscar, who’s stretched out on the bed at my feet.
“And how are things this morning?” Becky asks. “After a fresh social media explosion?”
“Oh, God.” I cup my forehead in my hand. “Please don’t tell me it’s gotten worse.”
“Not worse. There’s just more of it. Has your father seen it?”
“Yes.” I rise from bed. “And I don’t think he’s taking it well.
I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of .
. .” I pause because I’m not sure how to describe it to Becky.
It feels like a betrayal of Dad’s privacy, but I really do need someone to talk to, and Mom—my usual confidante—isn’t here.
“He let out a terrible moan,” I tell her.
“It was awful . . . like someone cut him in half.”
She pauses. “I’m so sorry. Does he know you heard him?”
“Yes, I think so. Oscar was at his door sniffing, so Dad came out and saw me standing in the hall. We went downstairs and talked. Dad made cinnamon toast for us.”
“Really.” She sounds skeptical. “He still remembers that.”
“Yeah. It was kind of nice, actually. It felt like I had my old dad back, but still . . .” I stop talking because I’m not even sure what, exactly, I want to say.
“Can you finish that thought?” Becky asks gently.
I move to my closet to choose what to wear to the hospital.
“I’m just so freaking angry with him. More than angry, and not just for being an absentee father since he opened the restaurant.
I’m mad at him for making Mom handle everything on her own.
And the cherry on top is him taking her to Peggy’s Cove after a storm and letting her get too close to the waves.
It’s his fault this happened to her. She should never have been there. ”
Becky gives me a moment, then speaks calmly. “Did you communicate that to him?”
I find my black turtleneck sweater, pull it from the top shelf in the closet, and reach for my most comfortable blue jeans. “Yes, and he said he felt bad about everything, and that he knows he hasn’t been a great dad.”
“Well, that’s progress, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. But it’s hard to look past what happened to Mom. He even admitted to me that he was responsible.”
Becky takes a long time to respond. “I beg your pardon?”