Ring.He almost always answers after the first ring.
Ring.
"How is my beautiful daughter?" Dad finally answers.
"Dad?"
"What’s the matter, sweetie? Is everything okay? You sound startled."
"Why did you send me a letter with the words, ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written on the back?" I have never received a letter from either of my parents. We have phones. There is no purpose for a letter.
"A letter?" Dad questions. "What letter?"
"It’s your handwriting.” I’m feeling more concerned as the time passes. I hear him shuffling around and the sound of papers slapping together.
"What in the world ..."
"What is it?" I ask.
"Your mother must have thought it was a piece of mail that needed to go out. Please don’t open the letter. I wasn’t ready to send the—"
"Send what? Dad, what is this?" My heart is racing, pounding so hard it feels like I have the hiccups in my chest. "It’s back, isn’t it?" I’m not sure he can understand my last question as it comes up in gasping breaths.
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
I have circled this day on my calendar with red ink. After I used the red pen, I began analyzing the color. Red symbolizes blood, negative feelings, and anger. I should have used a blue pen or purple. That way, I would associate the marking with a calmer mood. I’ve questioned if my subconscious already knows the truth—the results, and it’s why I chose red.
My chest feels heavy, and my stomach is full, but with pain. I figured I might be numb to it all by now, but I’m the one who is usually full of hope. I’ve tried to be the rock in our family. Inside, I’m falling apart, but I know I should be strong on the outside to support everyone else.
I take my keys, wrapping my hand around the purple rabbit’s foot I’ve had since my teenage days. I haven’t always used it as a key chain, but in recent months, I have found every form of good luck charm to put all my hope into. I spot the Target bag on my coffee table, remembering why I stopped by the store last night. We all might need tissues, and I’d rather be prepared than ask someone for a box. I purchased a pack of the mini travel pouches, so I drop three packages into my purse. God, I hope we don’t need these.
The sky is blue on this blustery fall day. There are only a few leaves left on each tree around the apartment complex. The rest of the trees have fallen over the last week because of the rain and high winds. I don’t know if the leaves are prettier on the trees after they’ve changed color or if they’re more eye-catching while scattered across the browning grass. I’ve always preferred fall over the other seasons, but after today, it might become my least favorite season of all.
The drive is short through the woods where little tornados of red leaves spiral and dance in front of my windshield as if they’re guiding me down the street. Mother Nature knows more than we do, and I wish I could read this moment as a sign.
The changing of the leaves.
A change.
Fall is the transition from hot to cold.
Hot to cold.
I turn up the radio to drown away my unruly thoughts, but I’m not sure the heaviest metal band in the world could make my thoughts any quieter today.
Driving in a daze from point A to point B feels timeless as I wonder how my brain knows to keep driving safely while my mind is in another world. However, I arrive, and I guess that’s what matters.
Mom and Dad have just pulled into the parking lot, and I watch them from my rear-view mirror. Mom drove.
Before the last six months, Dad always drove the car. They’re from a generation where the man drives, and the woman doesn’t have the desire to fight for the task.
Journey whips into the parking lot next in her little black coupe, which accents her personality. We’re only two years apart, but different like night and day with our lifestyle decisions. She likes to sit back and wait for the world to bring her gifts, and I work fifteen hours a day to get further faster. Neither of us is wrong. She’s become a well-known photographer at twenty-four, and I’ve landed a job with a movie channel to edit screenplays while living in our own apartments down the street from Mom and Dad. We have both threatened to leave the area many times before, but I’m glad neither of us did. Dad needed us this past year.
I’m the last one to join Mom, Dad, and Journey as we all silently walk into the medical facility.
While standing between two sets of glass doors, in a state of purgatory as it feels, Dad stops walking and turns to face Journey and me. Tears are in his eyes as he wraps his arms around both our necks, pulling our heads into his chest. "I love you, girls. My girls. Everything will be okay, one way or another. Do you understand?"
Journey, who has never been big on emotions loses a tear first. She clenches her dark-lined eyes, and more black makeup filled tears fall as she wraps her arms around Dad and me. Mom’s cool hand then falls upon my back; the four of us quiver and cry quietly in between the unknown outside and the news awaiting us inside.
