I can barely read the scrawl that the last entry on the page is written in.
April 26th
This morning, I got up early, dressed in my uniform, which I had washed and ironed last week. I pinned my medals to my chest and went downstairs. I made it to the door before the shaking started. So bad I couldn’t turn the doorknob.
I turned around and went upstairs. From the back room, I can see the outbuildings of Jake’s Retreat. I opened the window and could hear Taps playing across the fields.
As the bugle played, I stood to attention and listened from afar.
I rest the notebook on my lap as tears come to my eyes. My father was a recluse, but was it by choice, or was it because of the anxiety he carried?
I pick up the notebook and keep reading. Through May and June, he speaks about the shifting light on the mountain and the birds on his property who seem to be his only companions.
I wonder how many days he spent in this chair watching them from this window.
Another entry catches my eye.
June 30th
There was a man on the property today. Cookie alerted me with a warning squawk as he emerged from the woods. He didn’t appear to be from around here. In a suit and dark glasses. A tourist who lost their way, perhaps?
July 22nd
The man was back. Or perhaps it was a different man. This time in work boots, taking photos in the back field.
But when I went down, he was gone.
August 9th
I had a visitor today. A man in a suit with eyes like a hawk. Someone wants to buy my property. But I’m not selling. Where would I go? And who would take care of Cookie?
We get to September, and my breath catches on the entry for September 18th, my birthday.
I made a trip into town today. I kept my hands in my pockets and ignored the shaking. I went to Sweet & Strong and bought a single cupcake.
I ate it at home and threw crumbs to Cookie and her chicks.
My greatest wish for my daughter, no matter where she is, is that she finds joy and lives a fulfilling life.
The notebook falls from my grasp. He knew about me. He knew when my birthday was. My mother has been lying to me my entire life.
I pace the creaking floorboards as I call my mother. Miraculously, she picks up.
“Hey, sugar plum,” she says in a sleepy voice, as if she’s just woken up.
“Tell me about my dad.” I don’t waste time on pleasantries. “Because I know he knew about me.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I think she’s gone back to sleep. But eventually she speaks. “He was a troubled man.” She sighs. “And I loved him.”
I sit down hard on the chair. This is not the narrative she told me.
“Keep talking.”
“We fell in love when I came to pick berries at a local farm. He was handsome in a rugged way.” Her voice sounds far away, as if she’s caught in a past that’s better than the present.
“But he was troubled. He’d been in the military, and he’d just come back from Kuwait. I have no idea what he witnessed there, but he had nightmares. He’d thrash around in the night, and one time, I got bruises all over my face.
“He felt so terrible about it, and he tried to push me away. Begged me to leave. He didn’t want to hurt me. I begged him to get help, but things were different back then. People didn’t talk about stuff like that.”
