Then I remember what woke me, the moaning ghost, and I realize it was my father, weeping.
The house is quiet now, so I’m not sure what to do. Should I leave him be? Allow him his privacy?
He’s a grown man, and we’re not exactly close. Would it be weird if I knocked and checked on him? I wonder if he even knows that I’m awake. At the very least, he must hear Oscar’s loud sniffing under his door.
Without warning, the door slowly creaks open. Oscar’s tail wags, and he looks up.
Dad whispers, “What are you doing here, buddy? You’re supposed to sleep in Amanda’s room.” Then he peers out and sees me standing in the hall. My cheeks flush with heat.
“You’re up,” Dad says.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really.” I’m shaken by what I thought was a spirit howling in the night. “How about you?”
“Not so good. I can’t sleep. Fancy some cinnamon toast?”
My heart squeezes at the mention of the snack I loved most when I was a preschooler. It’s something I grew out of a long time ago, but in this moment, it’s the ultimate comfort food, and suddenly I’m craving it.
“That would be perfect.”
Dad leads the way to the stairs, and Oscar pushes ahead of us to run down first.
“Did anyone give him his supper?” Dad asks, and I realize I forgot.
“I don’t think so. He must be starving.”
We reach the kitchen. “Do you know where Mom keeps his food?” Dad asks.
“Of course. Don’tyou?” It’s another dig that I can’t bring myself to regret as I open the pantry door and reach for the bag of kibble.
“I suppose I deserve that,” Dad says. “I haven’t been around much lately.”
There are a dozen acerbic ways I could respond, and though I’m tempted to lash out, I resist the urge. We’re all going through hell rightnow, and I don’t want to fight, especially when he’s creating the perfect mix of cinnamon and sugar for my favorite kind of toast.
While I pour Oscar’s kibble into his bowl, Dad drops two slices of bread into the toaster and pushes the lever down. He then retrieves the milk from the refrigerator.
“I’ve known for a long time that your mom’s been doing everything around here to take care of you guys,” he says. “And I’ve been about as helpful as a bag of rocks.”
I slide onto a stool at the kitchen island and say nothing.
“It’s my fault this happened,” Dad says, his voice breaking. “I’m responsible.”
After everything I’ve read online, this confession from him cuts into me. I wince with discomfort, especially when his chin trembles. I’ve never seen my father cry before, and I don’t know what to say or do. So I sit there like a lump, speechless.
Dad fights to regain his composure and pours the milk, but I can’t forget the baleful sound of his grief that woke me earlier. It was the sound of deep, pure agony.
He moves to the cupboard and brings down the butter dish and two plates. The toast pops up, and I watch him butter both slices generously and use a teaspoon to carefully sprinkle the cinnamon and sugar. It melts into the hot butter, and my mouth waters. Then he cuts each slice into triangles.
He sits on the stool beside me, but we don’t speak. We pick up our toast and bite into it at the same time.
Despite the menace of this horrible day, the flavor on my tongue takes me back to my happy childhood, when I felt safe and loved and knew nothing about grief or loss. My mother was my sunshine, and my father was the steady ground beneath my feet.
But those days are long gone. I finish my toast and look at him. His elbows are perched on the island countertop, his hands clasped together, and his eyes are closed.
“Are you praying?” I ask with surprise.
