“Yes. It’s me.” I stare at the cane. “Are you injured?”
He ignores my question. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
He scoffs. “You should have called first. I have a busy schedule.”
Carter steps up next to me. “Too busy to spare a half hour for your daughter?” He holds out a hand. “Carter Cruz. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pastor Roberts.”
Dad appraises his hand as if he’s not sure he wants to shake it. But being the Godly man he is, he does so anyway. “And just who are you, Carter Cruz?”
“I’m the man who’s in love with your daughter, sir.”
“She already had a man who was in love with her. Her husband.” His head shakes. “She’s still married in the eyes of the Lord.”
“Is there a place we could talk?” Carter asks, nodding left. “Somewhere private?”
Dad’s eyes turn and I follow his gaze to the old lady who’s lurking in the hallway shadow. When he doesn’t reply, I add, “Please, Daddy. I have so much to tell you.”
“I’m not a priest. You don’t need to confess your sins to me, Kenna. Only to God.”
“Sir,” Carter insists. “Please. Thirty minutes is all we ask.”
Dad’s lungs seem to deflate. He turns and slowly walks away before he looks back over his shoulder. “You coming?”
Carter takes me by the hand again, giving it an encouraging squeeze as he guides me down the hallway.
My father’s office is nothing special. Your typical pastor’s office. There’s a large desk, no computer, the Bible opened upon it as if he was actively working on his next sermon. His bookshelves are filled with theological texts. His walls lined with various crosses, religious art, and photos of him with people I presume are members of the congregation. In the corner is a small seating area with a loveseat and chair.
Despite the inviting setup in the corner, he shuffles behind his desk. Carter and I each take one of the two chairs opposite him.
Dad glances at a large clock on the wall as if to remind me my allotted time is ticking by.
“Daddy.” I motion to the cane perched against the desk next to him. “What happened?”
“You’d know if you were part of my congregation.”
“Daddy, please.”
He puts a bookmark in his Bible, closes it, then sits back in his chair, eyeing me clinically as if this were a business meeting. “Subcortical stroke.”
My chest seizes. “You had a stroke?”
“About six months ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re never around,” he says. “Don’t worry, my family took care of me.”
It’s a jab. And it hurts just like he intended it to.
“Are you going to be okay?”
He shrugs. “I’m on a few medications.” He touches the cane. “And in physical therapy to strengthen my left side.” He taps his head. “No damage to cognition. The Lord has my back.”
“Do you need anything?” I ask. “Can I help with your medical bills?”
“Now, why would you do that?” His head shakes. “Insurance covered a good bit. My congregation put together some online fund to cover the rest.”
