Chapter Nineteen
Cassie felt like a teenager sneaking in after curfew, but her dad was asleep and Andrew’s door was closed and neither of them remarked on her fine mood the next morning.
Who was she kidding? She could skip naked through the kitchen, and they wouldn’t glance up.
Mothers of a certain age were invisible, and her dad was just trying to put one foot in front of the other. Literally.
At least his ankle was improving. He was moving competently this morning, making his breakfast. He seemed almost like his old self, all the synapses firing.
A stranger might not even realize his memory was faulty.
Only his appearance gave him away—hair uncombed, bundled in the frayed cardigan he wore even when the weather was warm.
“How about a walk this morning?” Cassie kissed his cheek as she sat down with her coffee, and he smiled absently, already involved with the newspaper.
It was afternoon by the time they got out, ambling down the driveway, her father leaning lightly on the cane.
The day was thick with sunshine, one of those gorgeous May days that felt like summer without the humidity.
Her mother’s peonies, which had survived despite lack of attention, had sprouted six inches seemingly overnight.
Even in Connecticut, life was in a hurry.
Her dad tested a couple of steps then brought forward the cane, wobbling when he caught a stone. Cassie resisted the impulse to steady him. She never knew how much to do, when to help and when to back off. Which was true of all her relationships, she supposed.
Despite his unsteadiness, they made it all the way down the driveway, which felt like progress.
From here, the house looked better. You couldn’t see the peeling paint and the rot eating away at the windowsills.
It looked like any solid Connecticut colonial, and for a moment she saw it as her dad must, the way he probably still viewed himself—battered but still standing.
“Remember the swing?” She pointed to a barely visible indentation where a towering maple had once stood.
Grass had swallowed the spot, but you could see it if you knew where to look.
Her dad had fashioned the swing from a flat piece of wood, sanded the edges smooth and varnished it so they wouldn’t get splinters.
Bolted the rope to a branch sturdy enough to hold them.
They detoured onto the grass, and her father scraped at the remnants of the stump with his cane. “Your mother hated that swing,” he said.
“She did?” Cassie glanced at him in surprise.
“She was always afraid you girls would fall.”
“She never said anything.”
“What do you mean, she talked about it all the time.”
An anxious thrumming started up in her belly.
How was it that her dad recalled this and she didn’t?
She should remember something as encompassing as her mother’s fear.
She remembered the swing itself in rich detail—the warm grain against her bottom, legs pumping so hard her feet flew higher than her head.
Her dancing impatience when it was Shelly’s turn.
But her mother fretting over the danger? That was lost. A bit of her past that had vanished without her even knowing.
Her father smiled an inward sort of smile.
“Boy, did I catch hell for that swing. Too high, too close to the road. They’re going to kill themselves.
” Without changing his voice, he’d channeled her mother—her expression, her inflection.
Her mom, in flesh and blood, came rushing back, and Cassie nearly staggered with the pain.
Her mother, living inside her dad all this time.
Her own memory was so incomplete, huge chunks of her mom she’d never known or didn’t remember.
But her dad, with his dwindling faculties, had stored it all away.
Memories he could still retrieve when the clouds parted. At least for now.
Cassie took his hand as they made their way back to the pavement. His skin was papery, the veins gnarled and blue. Her mother hadn’t lived long enough to age this way. Her mind had betrayed her, but she’d died with her skin unblemished.
“What else do you remember?” Cassie said.
Her dad shrugged, impatient that he was being pressed to recall. “Let’s take a look at the Kingsley property.”
“How about we stick to the road?” The woods, with rocks and roots and lumpy ground, presented all kinds of hazards.
Anyone could trip, especially an eighty-five-year-old just coming off an ankle injury.
But her dad struck out across the road with the obstinate look she knew so well.
“We said we were going to walk in the woods.”
She’d never agreed to that but it didn’t matter, he was headed there now.
Her dad hadn’t seen the Kingsley property since the bulldozing began.
And even though she’d known what was coming, the first time she saw it she’d felt a woozy shock that trees that had stood so long had surrendered so easily.
For a moment it had given her pause about selling to Weber, handing over the house and field as fodder for development.
She still hadn’t told Glenn about her plan.
Her stomach dipped unhappily at the thought of that conversation.
She needed to talk to him, but it never seemed to be the right time.
No. Her dad definitely did not need to see the Kingsley property. He would never agree to sell, and she still could see no other way forward. But he was already huffing up the embankment, stabbing at the soft spring dirt with his cane.
“You’re out of breath,” she admonished him. “Slow down.” She should have brought a bottle of water.
“I’m fine.” But he’d lost his burst of momentum and was having trouble gaining the top of the gentle slope. He was so damn stubborn, why couldn’t they have stayed on the road. She should have brought Andrew along. He could get her dad to do anything.
Her father stopped at the top of the rise to catch his breath. “Is this the property they sold?”
She looked at him in surprise. A few minutes ago he’d been so clear-eyed. “Yes, the Kingsley property.”
“I know that, but they sold it?” He mopped his face, which was perspiring heavily.
“It sold a few months ago.” She wondered if he even remembered about the development. Maybe he just wanted to walk in the woods.
They came to a deer path, which was easier going, but her dad still seemed uncomfortable.
“You okay?” He didn’t look good. His face was pasty and he still hadn’t caught his breath.
He rubbed fitfully at his shoulder. “Must have slept wrong last night, that’s all.”
“Your shoulder hurts?”
“When you get to my age everything hurts.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“What are you,” he grumbled, “my doctor?”
Nothing about this felt right. His shortness of breath and now this pain in his shoulder. She felt a rising unease. “You know what, we’re going home.”
To her surprise, he agreed. “Maybe I’ll lie down for a few minutes.”
A terrifying thought dawned on her. Could he be having a heart attack? She tried anxiously to remember the symptoms. Not always a crushing pain, that much she knew. Sweating, shortness of breath. Pain in the neck or shoulder.
She felt his arm. Clammy skin. That was a sign too.
Her own heart lurched in fear. Oh Christ. He was having a heart attack.
The downslope of the embankment loomed before them. A nothing little hill, but she had to get him down and out to the road.
No. She needed to call 911. Now.
She fumbled for her phone, then realized with a swoop of panic she’d left it at home.
How could she have forgotten her phone? She could see it, charging innocently on the kitchen counter. She hadn’t even thought about it; she was going for a walk with her dad, practically within sight of the house. What on earth could happen?
He was trembling now, his face glistening with perspiration. She shouted for help, but her voice came out tinny. No one could hear, the neighbors too far away. Even the earthmovers were quiet today.
She tamped down a rising panic. No time to get him out of the woods. She needed help. Now.
“Dad, listen to me.” She took a breath, trying to steady her own galloping heart. “I don’t want to scare you, but we need to get you to the hospital.”
“The hospital? I don’t need to go to the hospital. I just need to lie down.”
She looked into his face, which was sheened with a fine sweat. “I want you to sit right here and don’t move. I’m going to run to the house and call for help.” She didn’t want to use the word ambulance. That would terrify him.
He allowed her to ease him to the ground. No flat rock to sit on, nothing even for him to lean against. A stout pine a couple of yards away but he would never make it. He sat heavily where she put him, crushing a small bed of ferns.
“I don’t feel right,” he murmured. “Got a tightness in my chest.”
She squatted in front of him, white hot with fear.
She could lose him. He could die right here in the woods.
“Daddy.” In spite of her effort to stay calm, her voice shook.
“You’re going to be okay, you hear me? I’ll be right back.
Don’t try to move. Just stay here and wait for me.
” She sprang up, her heart exploding. Then quickly squatted again.
“I love you,” she said fiercely. “You hear me? I love you.”
Then she was off, taking the embankment in two long strides.
She nearly stumbled at the bottom, then quickly regained her footing.
She choked back a sob. So many irritants between them.
And for what? She’d abandoned him after her mother died, secretly, shamefully wishing it had been him instead.
Appalled she felt that way. She’d been a miserable daughter.
That was the truth. She lived an hour away and rarely came to see him.
And now he was having a heart attack, and she’d left him crumpled and alone in the woods.