“It’s not too late,” says Carl. “And I’d be saying that if you were thirty-seven or forty-seven or fifty-seven. Do not ever give up on yourself.”
I wonder if someone gave him this same pep talk when he was faltering, or if he had had to summon the strength to give it to himself.
“Well, I’d need loans,” I say, still hedging. “I’d have to go into debt.”
“Who cares? That’s the American way.”
I smile. He’s not letting me off the hook.
“Remember a year and a half ago? You weren’t sure you were up to the task of taking care of your father. Look at you now. Look at how many great decisions you’ve made on his behalf.”
Carl was the first person who seemed to think I could step into Nina’s shoes, and his vision of me was the one I tried to live up to when I quit Actualize and moved back here. I never thought about it that way until now. And he’s right—for all my insecurities, I think I’ve done well by my dad. In taking things one day at a time, I somehow fumbled my way from one life into another—one that’s smaller yet fuller, less flashy but infinitely more meaningful.
Carl meets my eyes. “Don’t give up on yourself, Cricket.”
A lightning bolt splits the clouded horizon in two, and a moment later, a heavy thunderclap seems to underline his point.
“Okay, okay,” I relent. “I won’t give up on myself.”
Chapter 48
I had held out hope that Seth might return again to talk to my father and give me some kind of resolution. But as summer dwindles, so, too, does that hope. For a moment, I worry that my relationship with Max might have angered his ghost, but I remind myself that Seth was never the jealous type.
Labor Day comes and goes, and the activity in Locust begins to ebb. My father has quieted as well, speaking less and less, eating less and less, walking less and less. One morning when he isn’t interested in breakfast, his favorite meal of the day, I take him to the doctor to have him checked out. This time, his MRI shows evidence of two additional TIAs.
“Likely in his sleep,” she explains. “They can be very subtle.”
For a moment, my instinct is to feel guilty about not noticing sooner, or not being more vigilant. But this time, I stop myself from indulging in self-blame.
“What’s causing them?” I ask.
“In his case, it’s likely a combination of age-related factors.” None of them are dire, she tells me, but none of them are good. She advises me to keep his stress level low, prescribes a few new medications, and sends us on our way.
On our drive home, my father hums softly as I roll down the windows to let in the last gasp of summer. There is a particular richness to early September, when the sunlight is broad and lazy. Everything is holding on to life, but not as resolutely as it did in the earlier months of the season. Even the birdsong that sparkles through the canopy is alittle off-tune, as if the birds are relaxed and tipsy after a spring and summer of diligent work (nest building, egg laying, chick rearing). It’s the end of the party, and all of nature is stumbling home, spent and satisfied. A breeze rustles the ferns along the road, and every once in a while, I get a quick whiff of decay, a reminder of the inevitable.
For the next while, we carry on gently, taking things day by day, night by night. My father doesn’t seem to be getting worse, but he is more subdued than he was even a month ago. I hope the halting of our project hasn’t dampened his spirit.
One evening at dusk, I hear the crunch of tires in the driveway. Though we have stopped accepting visitors since my father’s first TIA, a few have showed up unannounced, and I’ve had to turn them away. This evening, I leave him sitting by the fire and go out front to shoo away whomever it is.
When I open the door, there is a woman getting out of a black pickup truck. She is pretty in a plain way: no makeup, comfortable-looking wrinkles on her face, and thick hair that is somewhere between blond and gray.
“Hi there,” I say. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not accepting visitors anymore.”
“Cricket?” She looks hopeful.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Oh,” she says, with a bit of apprehension. “I’m not here for the oracle. I’m actually here to see you.”
This is a shock. No one comes to see me.
“I’m Jill,” she says, touching her chest lightly. There’s something familiar about her, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. “Atwater. I’m Seth’s mom.”
My breath catches in my throat. With her wavy hair and simple features, there’s no question that this woman is where Seth originated. It takes me a minute to gather myself before I invite her in.
I offer her a seat by the fire and introduce her to my father, discreetly explaining that he isn’t doing very well lately. She gives him a smile, which he reciprocates before turning his attention back to the cat on his lap. I retreat to the kitchen to make tea and collect myself.Jill’s visit feels both unforeseen and inevitable. Maybe all this time, while I thought I was waiting for Seth to come back, it was actually Jill who was on her way.
When I return to the great room, I settle into a chair and set our tea down on the side table between us.
