When I don’t volunteer anything about my time with Nathan, Mila taps the book in my lap.“What’s this?”
I’d almost forgotten I pulled it off the shelf when I came in.It’s a book Dad wrote during a summer we spent together in Ireland about ten years ago.It’s one of my favourites, and not just because it’s dedicated to me.When it was published, Dad gave me the first-ever print copy and told me he wouldn’t have been able to write it without me, since our relationship inspired the father-daughter relationship in the story.
“Ahh, this is one of my favourites,” Mila says, taking the book from me.“Seamus had a knack for making you laugh one minute and sob your eyes out the next, didn’t he?And the romance in this one!Some of those swoony moments between Maeve and Cillian live rent-free in my mind.”
“Same here.”I free myself from the chair with some difficulty and make my way to Dad’s desk, motioning for Mila to follow.“I’ve been wanting to bring you in here since you arrived, but kept putting it off.”
She joins me, hesitating when I motion for her to sit in Dad’s chair.After a long moment, she perches gingerly on the edge before sliding back and settling in.“I can smell him in here,” she whispers.“Musk and peppermint and…” She trails off as she spots the lit candle on the desk.“That’swhat that smell is.I knew I recognized it.”
It’s a Sherlock Holmes-inspired candle called 221B Baker Street that smells of tobacco, leather, and musk.I discovered it at a small candle shop in London a few years ago and bought it, knowing Dad would like the scent.He’d loved it so much, he asked me to buy several more just in case they stopped making them.
“He had one of these at the house in Ireland, right?”Mila asks, and I nod.She rolls the chair closer to the desk and runs her hands across the smooth wood, her gaze slowly moving over the stacks of paper, research books, and framed photos.
She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.“How can he be gone when his presence here is so strong?”
Tears slide down my face.“I think that’s why I avoided bringing you in here.I can feel him all over the house, but especially in here.It’s like he’s going to walk in at any second and crack a joke or regale us with a story.”
Mila lets out a shaky laugh.“Or ask us when and where our next adventure is and if he can tag along.”
“God, what I would give for that.”
Mila nods, her throat working as she tries to hold back tears.With a huff, she blinks hard and lets them fall.She reaches blindly for my hand, and we’re both silent as we let the tears come.
Finally, I give myself a shake and kiss the back of Mila’s hand.I grab the box of tissues at the edge of the desk and take one before handing the box to her.“I brought you to the desk for a reason,” I tell her, swiping at my eyes as Mila does the same, making a face as she wipes her runny nose.
I open one of the desk drawers and pull out a bundle of postcards tied together with a blue ribbon.“These are all the postcards you sent Dad over the years.”
“I can’t believe he kept all of these.”Her voice is an awed whisper.She accepts the bundle from me, trailing her fingers over the ribbon.There are several dozen postcards altogether; she started sending them to him after the first time they met.
“Mum and I want you to have them.I’m actually surprised Dad didn’t include them in the box of stuff he had his lawyer send you.”
Mila smiles sadly.“Thanks.When we get settled wherever we’re going after we leave the flat in London, I’m going to buy one of those special keepsake boxes.That’s where I’ll put these and the other things Seamus gave me.”
I think of the beautiful wooden box Nathan has on his mantle.I bet he’d be happy to make one for Mila.I’m about to tell her that when she rises from the chair, releasing a gusty sigh, and wiping her eyes.“I think I’m ready to go back to bed,” she says, clutching the postcards to her chest.
We share a long, tight hug, and then Mila rounds the desk, pausing on the far side.She runs her hands over the wood once more.Her lips twitch when she spots Dad’s bowl of peppermints.“Can I…?”
“Of course,” I say.She takes one, then blows me a kiss before leaving.
Alone once more, I flop into the desk chair and let it spin around a couple of times.I peer into the open drawer where the postcards were.There are other stacks, all tied with various colours of ribbon.The last time I was in here, I only made it as far as the postcards before I had a minor meltdown and decided to leave the rest for later.Knowing Dad kept them made me emotional, but more than that, the thought of him organizing all these things before he died broke my heart.
What must it have been like to go through all of his belongings, knowing he was going to die?To parcel up bits and pieces of his life, the things that were important enough to keep, and set them aside for us to find?I can’t even imagine what that must have been like, and I try not to linger on it because it pokes at that gaping void inside me and makes me feel sick.
I should probably follow Mila’s lead and go to bed, but just like something compelled me to come into Dad’s office, there’s something keeping me here now.I pull the next bundle out of the drawer and set it on the desk, eyeing the stack of greeting cards as I untie the purple ribbon.
A quick rifle through them shows they’re all Father’s Day cards.The first in the stack has a decidedly retro vibe; it depicts an illustration of a well-dressed male dog holding the paw of a puppy wearing pastel pink overalls and matching bows on her ears.The date written in the top right corner tells me this would have been Dad’s first Father’s Day.Inside, there’s a tiny ink handprint on the left side.On the right in Mum’s handwriting is: ‘To Daddy on your first Father’s Day.I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have you as my dad.Love, Fiona.’
The next card features a swirl of blue and green watercolours and the words ‘For my husband on Father’s Day’.Through tears, I read Mum’s message to Dad, telling him what a joy and a privilege it was to watch him step into the role of fatherhood, and how lucky she and I were to have him in our lives.
At this point, I’m tempted to put the cards away, but I keep going like the apparent masochist I am.Eventually, Mum’s handwriting is accompanied by colourful crayon drawings from me.After a few more, her writing is replaced entirely with my wobbly, enormous signature.For every card from me, there’s one from Mum too, always with a note inside.
I’m careful not to let my tears splash on the cards as I flip through them.As the years go on, there are a few cards from Nathan and Liam mixed in.The year Rex was born, there’s a card from Thea, thanking Dad for all his love and support, and telling him how grateful she is that Rex will grow up with him in his life.From that year on, there’s always one from Thea and Rex.
The final five cards in the pile are from last year.Besides the yearly cards from Mum, me, and Thea and Rex, there’s a card from Liam, and one from Nathan.When I see the long note in Nathan’s, I hesitate, but my curiosity gets the better of me.
Murph,
I must be getting sappy in your old age—yes, you read that right—because I’ve been thinking a lot about how damn lucky I’ve been all these years to have you as a father figure and friend.You’ve always loved me, always been there for me, always supported me.And not just me, but Liam, Thea, and Rex too.
