“Yes. Praying for your mom. And for myself.”
I’m perplexed. “Why for yourself?”
“I’m asking for forgiveness.”
I’m jolted by his response, and all my extremities go numb. What, exactly, does he need to be forgiven for? Being a bad father? Or hurting Mom?
Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you read what people are posting on social media?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think your mom would say about it if she were sitting here right now?”
I consider that thoughtfully for a few seconds. “She’d tell you to ignore the haters. Then, if anyone crossed a line, she’d take you to the police station to file a report.”
He acknowledges this with a nod. “You’re right. That’s exactly what she would do.” He sips his milk and sets the glass back down. “Sorry I wasn’t around to help you through that bullying situation.”
I shrug a shoulder. “It’s fine. Mom took care of things, and it all worked out.” I glance down at Oscar, who’s curled up on the floor at my feet.
Dad makes an effort to keep the conversation going. “She said Jeff’s a nice guy. I’d like to meet him at some point, size him up for myself. See if he’s good enough for my favorite daughter.”
He’s trying way too hard to get on my good side, but I don’t fall for the flattery. I rub my finger across the cinnamon and sugar left on my plate and lick it. “You can give me your opinion, and I’ll consider it.”
Dad watches my profile for a moment. “I always knew you’d turn out to be a strong woman. Even as a toddler, you had a will of your own. We used to call you the Iron Lady.”
I glance up. “You did? I never knew that.”
He sits back and folds his arms. “It wasn’t something we ever said in front of you.”
“Oh, I see. It sounds like a compliment now, but at the time it was probably an insult because you hated it when I wouldn’t let up about getting a cell phone.”
“You wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he agrees, “until you finally got your way.”
I reach for my milk. “Maybe I should have listened to you, because sometimes that phone has been a curse. It must’ve been nice to grow up in the nineties, when there was no such thing as Instagram and ‘likes’ and stupid algorithms.” I sip my milk.
“This has been a hellish day,” he says, “but at least it feels good to talk to you.”
He holds out his arms, and I let him hug me like he used to do, but it’s awkward and uncomfortable. I can’t let go of what happened to Mom today, and I don’t trust Dad to ever put me and Connor ahead of his stupid restaurant.
I sit back and look down at Oscar still curled up under my stool. “We should probably get some sleep,” I say.
Dad rises and collects the plates, carries them to the dishwasher, and loads them onto the bottom rack.
“Come on, Oscar,” I say. “Let’s go back to bed.”
He sits up, stretches, and follows as I head for the stairs. I pause at the bottom and turn back to Dad. “What time should we go to the hospital in the morning?”
“As soon as we’re up,” he replies.
It’s a vague answer, and it won’t do. Clearly Dad has no idea that Connor will sleep until noon if we let him.
“I’ll set my alarm for eight and wake Connor.”
It irks me that Dad doesn’t know much about anything around here.
When my alarm goes off, it feels like I just laid my head on the pillow. I wake up exhausted and press the snooze button, but I can’t fall back to sleep because yesterday’s events descend on me like a hammer.
Mom ... swept off the rocks at Peggy’s Cove. She’s in the hospital, in a coma, and everyone seems to think my dad pushed her.
