“Everett? Is everything all right?” His gravel tone crackles through the speaker when he answers.
I yank the phone from my ear to look at the clock.The time difference.
“Dad, hey. Everything’s fine. I’m sorry to call so… early? What time is it there?”
“Doesn’t matter. Hang on a second,” he whispers.
There’s a creak, a shuffle, a pause, and a click before he speaks again. “Sorry about that. It’s good to hear your voice.”
The revelation that we haven’t spoken since Quinn’s birthday smacks me square in the chest. That was a month ago.
“Yours too. Where are you?”
“In the bathroom.”
I chuckle. “I meant in Italy, Dad. What part of Italy?”
“Oh, right.” A clear indication that I woke him for this conversation.
They’ve texted me pictures from Naples, Rome, and Florence since they left the Amalfi Coast. The most I’ve sent back is a heart. Communication is not my strength when life gets overwhelming. When I moved to Nashville, my parents used to check in with me all the time. They stopped when I got too busy to answer, waiting for me to call them first.
“Well, we made it to Milan yesterday. It’s the home of designer purse brands, apparently. I couldn’t tell you the names of any of them. Pretty incredible cathedral though.”
“Sounds awesome. How’s Mom?”
“Had to talk her off a ledge yesterday, but she’s good now.” A muffled laugh follows his attempt at a joke.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner.”
I promised them a few days the last time we spoke. She has every right to feel upset over four weeks.
“Taking care of a kid is a lot,” he argues.
I appreciate the validation, but it doesn’t make me feel any less guilty.
“Speaking of… how’s Quinn?”
I pick out shapes in the clouds—a fish, abear, a tree—to calm me. “She had an evaluation a couple weeks ago and started speech therapy.”
A hum slips from his lips. Silent patience follows. My disability may have forced me to excel at lip reading, but being a good listener is a skill I learned from him.
“Can I ask what it was like for you when you found out about my APD?”
It’s a question I never thought to pose when I was younger. There are certain things you don’t appreciate until you’re a parent too.
For ten seconds I think he turned on the bathroom fan. When the whirring stops I realize the sound came from him.
“I started therapy.”
Silence—from him—follows that sentence. Surprise follows it for me. Not at the visual of my dad lying flat on a couch talking with a professional about his feelings—he’s never been too proud to show vulnerability—but at learning it wasn’t my mom on that couch, talking to a professional.
Because it was her who suggested I attend therapy after the concert fallout. She suggested it when Eliza died too.
I wait for him to elaborate before realizing he answered my question already. In as few words as possible, but the meaning behind them is still there—he was struggling and sought help.
“Do you think I could have the number?”
“I’m texting it to you right now. His name is Charlie. I’ve been seeing him for twenty-five years. Not every therapist is right for everyone, but he’s put me back together more times than I can count.”
