I smell it too. Woodsmoke, like when we used to have fires around Christmas. It was a rare luxury because wood cost money and didn’t actually heat the house.
“Dad?”
“Kiddos!” He smiles, wide and fake.
We make it halfway up the steps before it becomes clear that he’s not going to move out of our way to let us into the house.
“Come by for a late-night snack?” Why’s he being so weird?
“A snack, Dad?”
“No. No snack!” yells Otty. “We were worried.”
Hannah and I exchange a look. The concern I’ve felt for Dad these past few weeks shifts. Is this dementia? Please, please, please let it not be dementia.
“Aw, well, you girls are really so sweet, but I was just—”
“You’ve got to tell them, Nate,” a woman’s voice says from over Dad’s shoulder.
We watch wide-eyed as she comes into view.
“Ms. Barcom-Tancredi?” we all three whisper.
“Heh. Yeah. Well, you can probably call me Laura now.”
Nope. Not happening. I will absolutely never be able to call her anything but Ms. Barcom-Tancredi.
Dad deflates from his weird defensive posture and turns sideways to let us through. Ironically, now that he’s inviting us into the house, none of us seems all that excited to enter.
“So, you’re fine, then.”
“I’m good.” He glances back at Ms. Barcom-Tancredi and smiles. When she smiles back at him, emotion wells up inside me, so strong that I can’t quite catch my breath for a few seconds.
Maybe it’s shock? Or maybe, maybe seeing my sweet father look truly happy for the first time since Mom died has made me see just how hard it’s been.
Not just for us. For him too.
“Dad.”
He looks at me.
“How did you and my English teacher meet?” My favorite teacher. The teacher who let me eat in her classroom and brought sandwiches when I didn’t have time to make them for myself.
“We’re doingCabarettogether. She’s amazing as Fräulein Schneider.”
“We hope you’ll come to the performance next month!” Ms. Barcom-Tancredi throws into the mix.
“Hey, Rae! You’ll love this part! So, I tried out your app, Honey,” my dad says.
“Sugar.”
“Right, well, Laura was on it, and we were a ninety-eight percent match. I clicked on her, and she said yes. We auditioned together on our first date, and, well… the rest is herstory.”
“Ourstory,” adds Ms. Barcom-Tancredi, smiling at Dad.
Hannah surreptitiously squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
“Want a hot chocolate?” Dad asks, as if this were a regular Friday night and not the night we discovered that Dad has an actual life. Not only that, but he’s safe and healthy, and his heart’s probably just dandy.
