I’m stupidly teary. This is the falling-apart moment. I put down my spoon, dab my eyes with my napkin. I’m blubbering with Dad over ice cream just like I did in fourth grade and in graduate school.
“Who told you that you were supposed to be in mourning?”
“Well... me—I guess. And you know, one of the great things about Mom was that she always kept order and rules going even when things went badly for us. A period of mourning and maintaining mourning rituals seemed like a good idea. It helps keep me together.”
He glances down at my jet necklace over my black sundress.
“It’s Victorian-style mourning, Dad,” I mutter.
“Naturally,” he says dryly, as if he expected nothing less of me.
He takes the last bite of cone and wipes his mouth. I can’t believe he ate the whole thing.
“You aren’tsupposedto do anything except take care of yourself and Heathcliff. Keep it simple. I thought for decades I wasn’t supposed to eat sugar. I ate a Twinkie last month, and nothing happened.”
I remember that scary moment when August asked me what would happen if I stopped my rules and rituals. I think about giving them up now without as much fear.
“Nora was our backbone. But your mother didn’t always follow the rules.” He looks off at the rippling ivy on the trellis beams. “We danced again before she died.”
“What?” I murmur, my voice barely audible.
He keeps his eyes on the ivy.
“We danced. She had strict orders not to get out of bed unassisted. She was too weak. But one of those last evenings when I walked into the bedroom with her medicine, she was up, queuing the salsa music on the nightstand stereo. She looked so frail under her robe. But somehow, she’d summoned the strength to slip on her old satin dancing shoes. I urged her back to bed, but she said, ‘Be quiet, Gaylord. I want to dance with you one last time.’So we danced. She put on one of our favorites, Héctor Lavoe’s ‘Periódico de Ayer.’ She was so weak. I had to support her. But she remembered every move perfectly. My darling didn’t miss a beat.”
“Oh, Dad...”
We’re quiet. I can’t quite finish my gelato, so I push it aside. We watch a woman tether a large French poodle to the ice cream store patio’s iron gate as she walks inside to order. I watch a young blonde nanny share an ice cream cone with a toddler.
He turns to me. “My point is that you really shouldn’t follow all the rules all the time. You’ll end up missing out on something important.
“As for Mirabel,” Dad continues. “You’ll know what to do when you get home. She’s always been like she is. The longer she keeps the lid on her secret, the more monstrous it feels to her. Do you remember the Pandora’s box myth we read when you were young?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs. “Philip, and now Henry and you, sprung open a box lid that needed to come off. Philip wanted the truth out, no matter how troublesome. Now you have to resolve it all, and part of that is helping Mirabel come to peace with it. I know that’s a weight, Lizzie, but you can do it.”
Although I knew with childlike longing that I needed ice cream with Dad, I realize why. For all his aloofness, he always believed in me. This helped me believe in myself.
“As for Dansworth, well... I think we both know what your mother would say about him.” Dad’s mouth twitches. “Henry Lawton’s a harder one. But let your heart do the sorting rather than the rules about what you think you’re supposed to do.”
I cringe remembering how I snapped at Henry last night. The hard truth is I’m overwhelmed and afraid.
I take a deep breath. “And in the meantime, in my last days here—what am I supposed to do? I’m still not sorted out, Dad.”
He crosses his arms on the patio table and pushes his glasses up on his nose.
“Take another trip.”
I know where I need to go.
That evening, I make a flurry of calls and text Henry to tell him I’ll be away again. I book train tickets and an Airbnb. Dad offers to take care of Heathcliff for the next two days. I know between him and Ms. Fernsby, he’ll be in good hands. I tell them I’m only going to accept texts and calls from them. I’ve already blocked August, but I’m (temporarily) going to block everyone else—even Henry. For now. I need to be alone with my own thoughts.
Dad, meanwhile, seems to be in no hurry to leave London. He remains vague when I ask him how long he’s here. Ms. Fernsby looks prettier by the day, wearing all her nicest housedresses, and I’ve never seen her blush so often. Dad continues to play with Heathcliff, taking him on walks and reading to him. Heathcliff doesn’t seem to notice Dad’s shyness. If anything, he seems to enjoy having a constant companion listen nonstop to his favorite Batman story plots. Dad doesn’t get tired like I do with Heathcliff’s energy and chatter. Also, I don’t think I’m imagining that Dad seems to be quietly making himself available to Ms. Fernsby—sitting often at the kitchen island between meals with a cup of tea, reading in the parlor. He eatseverything she puts in front of him no matter how sweet, and each time she beams.
I pack quickly—jeans, my warmest pair of black leggings, new hiking boots. Even though it’s summer, I buy a black windbreaker and fleece vest. I know I’ll need them where I’m going. I still take my widowhood trinkets, the jet and fingerprint necklace, Philip’s urn.
Henry texts me:I know I’m the last person you want to talk to now. But you need to know you might hear from Mirabel. She’s threatening to sue us. Don’t worry about it.
