But he needs to be in bed. “Daddy,” I whisper, gently shaking his arm.
He comes awake with a jolt, looks around, then straight at me with piercing, if faded blue eyes. He knows just where he is. I’m the only thing out of place. “Mallory?” he asks, curious.
He knows my face. And curious is better than disappointed. My heart leaps. “Itisme.”
He considers that with a frown, studying me for so long I have to fight not to squirm like a frightened child. Then his eyes clear and sadden.
In a voice that is filled with regret, he says, “It was guilt.”
I wait for more. Terrified that he’ll leave it there, I gently coax, “What was?”
“Why she left. We had an agreement. Neither of us would tell.”
My heart beats faster. “Tell what?”
“What she did. Why she did it. We made a pact. I wouldn’t tell about her, if she didn’t tell about me. Many couples do that. They have to, to survive. When there are children involved, and reputations…” His gaze clouds and, like his voice, drifts away.
Agreement. Pact. Children.The words reverberate, fading in and out. He’s talking about Elizabeth, of course. Or is he? My rationalmind has a second rational interpretation, but it’s so abhorrent that I chalk it up to fear. I need more. Ifeelmore. There’s a memory here, but I can’t touch it.
“Dad,” I whisper. His eyes fly to mine. “Do you know where she went?”
He looks back at me. “Who?” he asks, as though just now joining the discussion.
And for several beats, I can’t answer. There’s something about that memory. Try as I might, though, I get nowhere. All that’s left is common sense in the here and now.
“Elizabeth,” I say.
“Elizabeth,” he repeats and is suddenly back. “How would I know that? I’ve told you time and again. She was on the boat one minute and off it the next. Why are you bringing up Elizabeth?”
I swallow. “Well, you mentioned her, so I thought…”
“Thought what?” he barks.
The man with answers is gone. Whether willfully or beyond his control, the moment of confession is lost. Releasing a breath, I say as gently as I can, “Why don’t you go to bed?”
He scowls at his watch. “I never go to bed this early.”
“You were just sleeping—”
“I was not. I’m not old, and I’m not sick.” He flicks me away. “Go. Now. I have reading to do before morning.”
Backing off, I rejoin Joy at the archway and take her hand. “We’ll be outside,” I call his way. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“What would I need?” my father shouts. “I have everything I need, and if I need something, I can get it myself. I’m perfectly capable of doing that, you know. A broken wrist doesn’t make me infirm.”
Absurdly, his outburst works for me. My father was always moody, quick to anger, a stickler for what he sees as fact. But I have my daughter with me now. She ismyfact. Leaving the man and my little bits of memory behind, I continue onto the deeply-shadowed porch.
“Is he always like that?” Joy asks when the screen door slaps shut.
“No. He’s angry.”
“Because we’re here?”
“Because we haven’t been here before. And because he probably does not have reading to do. And because he can’t remember things he wants to, and he knows that his life is narrowing in. Getting older can be beautiful or not.” I tug her down beside me on the steps and drawl, “Aren’t you glad we’re here?”
A pair of geese pass overhead, honking in laughter.
Joy isn’t laughing. “Iam.We don’t get this in New York.” She is staring out across the darkening heather toward the ocean. “I can’t imagine seeing this every day. It must have been awesome.” The dying sun is edging the horizon’s clouds an orangey pink. Closer to shore, the surf has settled into a gentle gather-and-break. Sage is in the air, carried in from the bluff on the breeze.
