Taking pity on him, I walk close enough so that he can’t missme, far enough so that our arms don’t touch. He stops once, frowns at the path ahead, and, half to himself, says a breathy, “Is this right?”
It’s a minute before I realize that he is serious, several beats again before I accept that he is confused. More than anything else I’ve seen of him since we arrived, this is the most upsetting. Having lived on the bluff so long, he has taken this road thousands of times. It is the only way to the top of the bluff, hence the only one he could possibly take home.Confusedis a serious problem.
Making light of it, I say, “The house is just ahead. Boy, is this road ever steep.”
He resumes his plodding, but I see that he is bracing the cast against his belt.
“Does your wrist hurt?”
He doesn’t respond. His mind is elsewhere. After several steps, he says under his breath, “Sometimes I think she sent her.”
My first thought is Margo, since my sister was our last touchpoint. But there is a gentleness to his voice that redirects me. “Elizabeth sent Lily?”
He shoots me an uncertain look, and I think of Jack asking the same, still wondering and wishing. As angry as I can be with either one of them for past attacks, my heart goes out to them both.
“Elizabeth is dead, Dad,” I say gently. “We agreed on that. Unless you know something we don’t?”
“Oh yeah,” he snorts, though his breathing is heavy, “I know lots that you don’t. But not about her.”
I wait for him to elaborate, perhaps to go off on something having to do, if not with Elizabeth, then with the law or my mother or even Margo.
We are nearing the top of the road. The house has appeared and grows taller with each step. But he has slowed even more. When he stops entirely, he straightens, puts his hands on his lower back and stretches. He is panting.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“No. I am not.”
Now that I look, he is pale, and there’s that breathing. I reach for my phone. “I’ll call for help—”
“No.” Straightening, he starts walking again. His steps are slow, his eyes on the house like it’s the goal of his life. “I need to tell you.” He shoots me a glance to make sure I’m listening.
And I hear a confession coming.
Chapter 11
My pulse trips over the possibilities—Elizabeth, my mother, me—but I’ve left one out.
“I know what’s happening,” he says in short breaths. “To my mind. What I have.”
Quickly, I recalibrate. I’m not stricken; he is only confirming my suspicions. But his tone is the shocker. There is resignation even in his breathlessness, and resignation issonot my father. Belligerence, yes. Resentment, yes. Defiance, yes. But not resignation.
“I can’t remember,” he goes on in his soft huffing. “Words. Names. Where to be. What to do.”
He shoots me another glance, but my childhood training is ingrained. I know not to speak, just to listen. That said, I could swear his glance held shame and as his daughter, as a human being, I’m heartsick.
I want to tell him that what he has isn’t his fault. But he is slogging on now, just that foot or two ahead of me, up the last of the hillto the crest. Once there, he points at the front steps. Veering in front of me so sharply that I have to stop short, he crosses the last distance and lowers himself to the wood.
Now that he’s stopped, the sound of his breathing is even louder. I’m not sure if it’s the hill, the heat, or the hell in his mind, but he is clearly in distress.
Dropping down on the step, I face him and urge softly, “Go on.”
He puts his forearms on his thighs, lean fingers tightly linked, and waits for his breathing to slow. That breathing scares me. But my first priority is his mind. Distract him with another problem, like shortness of breath, and I risk losing him.
“It won’t get better,” he finally says.
“There’s medication—”
“No drugs.”
