Page 84 of Barefoot Lake

“It’s –” I don’t know how to answer him. “It’ll make more sense when we get there.”

He sinks back against me.

“I’ll go anywhere with you.”

As we drive away from Wilcox Grove a couple hours later, I can’t help but compare it to my drive up in September. The trees that were just beginning to change color then are now vibrant and the road is littered with scattered leaves. The late summer sunshine is gone, and gray clouds chase me back to Boston.

Jake is driving his truck, and I’m occupying my usual spot in the middle of the bench seat. I try to put on music to clear my head, but everything just feels like noise. So, we drive in silence.

Several hours later, I’m directing Jake to take an exit just north of Boston. I give him directions that I’ve got committed to memory, and soon, we’re pulling into a parking lot for a large three-story building. The sign out front reads “Willow Acres.”

Jake parks and turns off the truck. I’m impressed that he resisted asking any questions about our destination all morning and for the several-hour-long drive, but the time has come.

“Ace, where are we?”

I can’t meet his gaze, so I stare at my hands in my lap.

“I lied to you when you asked if I was ever curious about my father. For most of my life, I really wasn’t. But a few years ago, after Mom got sick, I did some digging. I had a name on my birth certificate, and I guess at some point, he participated in a genetic matching service. I’ve never told anybody, not even Mom, but I found him.”

Jake places his hand over mine. I didn’t realize I’d been picking at my nails, but his touch stills me.

“There’s nothing wrong with looking for him. It’s natural to want to know.”

I shake my head.

“It’s not that. Willow Acres is a facility for people who need full-time care. My father lives here, and he has dementia. He doesn’t know who I am, but I’m all he has left.”

CHAPTER 32

Jake

Idon’t know what to expect when we approach William Davis’s room, but the door swings open to reveal a clean-cut man in a three-piece grey suit who looks like he’s in his sixties sitting behind a desk reading a book. The right side of the room has a bed pressed up against the wall, a chest of drawers, and a closet, with the door slightly ajar. But the left side of the room looks like an office, with a wall of overfull bookcases and two leather chairs before the desk.

Alice’s father looks up as we enter and closes his book.

“Come in, come in. Please, have a seat,” he says warmly and gestures to the two chairs. He begins shuffling papers on the desk. “You must be here to ask about the grades on the papers. I’m sure I have yours here somewhere.”

I follow Alice’s lead and sit down, but I don’t know what’s happening.

“Actually, we’re not, Professor Davis,” Alice speaks up.

William stills and looks kindly at us.

“Thank goodness. Your classmates have been hounding me all day. I’ll be returning papers in class tomorrow, anyway. What can I do for you?”

It seems like he thinks he’s a professor and we’re his students, visiting during office hours.

“Well, Sir, I was hoping to get your advice. I think I’d like to become an English professor, like you. I was hoping you could tell me about the path you took to get to where you are.” Alice accepts her role. Before we came inside, she told me she typically participates in his delusions during her visits to be able to spend time with him without distressing him.

“Ah, an academic mind,” William says, leaning back in his chair. He clasps his hands in his lap and begins repeatedly rubbing his finger with his other thumb. It’s the exact same motion I’ve seen Alice do a dozen times when she’s not sure what to say.

“Teaching wasn’t always the goal for me,” he continues. “I began my studies as a theater major, determined to become a world-famous actor. I wanted to familiarize myself with as many characters as possible, so I became consumed by reading. It started with plays, but I quickly moved on to other genres, devouring anything I could get my hands on. I think the storytelling abilities of the authors became an obsession of mine.

“Eventually, I transitioned to English, so I could make a profession of learning and sharing the worlds I’d walked in. Being in the classroom with new students is the best part of the job. The bureaucracy is rubbish, but as long as you love working with the students, it’s a really good gig.”

He gestures to his bookcases, and I turn to look at them. I catch a glimpse of Alice’s face before she turns, too, and her eyes are shining. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for her to sit before this man, with whom she shares so much, and not have him know.

Alice asks him about his favorite books to teach – the American classics – and they excitedly talk about different books, but I can’t take my eyes off Alice. She’s animated and engaged, but her hands are tightly clenched in her lap, and her thumb presses hard into her finger as it rubs back and forth.