Page 13 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“It doesn’t sound so bad,” I say honestly. “I can handle that.”

A shadow crosses his face. Something mournful that I do not recognize. “It’s hard. It was so hard with Nana. I don’t want it to be like that for you.”

“Guess you should’ve thought of that before you got sick.” Humor, no matter how dark, always worked between us. I pray it still does. That we have this, even if we’ve lost so much else.

He chuckles heartily. Grabs my hand and squeezes. “Believe me, I did.”

Silence falls as I consider his words. As he considers mine. I feel like I could burst into tears, but I work to hold it in. No crying in front of Dad. I have to prove to him I can do this.

“Tru helped me…prepare things. Make decisions. When things get bad, I’ll go into a home. Sell the house to cover it, then Medicaid after that. You won’t have to worry about me, I promise.”

My eyes widen in shock. “I’m not putting you in a home, Dad. No way. I’ll take care of you. No matter what.”

He doesn’t disagree, but his gaze remains set. The blue is so bright, so hard it could be an aquamarine. Set it in gold and it’d be beautiful.

In his eyes, though, it chills me straight through.

“Come on,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Let’s go in and order pizza. Does Hungry Howie’s still deliver out here?”

He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Domino’s, too.”

“You guys got Domino’s?” I whistle brightly. “Fly Hollow is moving up in the world.”

He allows me to guide him inside without incident. Waits patiently in the breakfast nook, watching the moonlight play over the swells and valleys of the Parkers’ land, as I order the pizza. Neither of us brings up the conversation in the car, and for once I pray he’s forgotten.

Truett doesn’t return the entire weekend. I swallow my disappointment like bile. Its presence doesn’t even make sense to me. I should be grateful that he heeded my warning, that I don’t have to worry about seeing him. About the complicated feelings that come up when he’s around. Without the reminder, I can almost go back to forgetting about him.

Almost.

Besides, I have enough to worry about without adding him to the mix. Enough to grieve. With Dad’s and my conversation playing on a loop in my mind throughout the night, it’s a miracle I can think of anything else.

But, as has always been the case with Truett, he somehow wiggles his way in through the madness.

Monday morning starts with the steady roar of a lawn mower. I blink awake, eyes burning from lack of sleep. Once, I knew each noise this house made in the night. Now I wake for every groaning pipe, each whistle of the air conditioner ramping up. I dream that Truett’s eyes are the sky, and so I cannot escape them. I’m tired, but going back to sleep knowing that’s what awaits me? Not worth the risk.

I roll away from the wall and any thoughts about Tru to study my room in the early morning light. Twin streaks of milky sunbeams leak through the outer edges of the blackout curtains. Those streaks illuminate my volleyball trophies, perched high on a shelf on the opposite wall. There are photos, too, sitting between each one. My dad and me at the state championship, the practices, the awards ceremonies. Mom appears in only one, taken that final year when the edges of our family were starting to fray. Before that, it was always just Dad and me. Mom didn’t like the noise or the crowds.

The mower passes by my window, causing that fragmented source of light to flicker. I smile, untangle my legs from the sheets, and sit up on the edge of my bed. So many summer mornings started this way. Dad would mow the lawn, something he was always precious about, never allowing me to help. Then he’d come in sweat-slicked and smelling like fresh-cut grass, the beginnings of a sunglasses tan line etched into his face. I’d cook pancakes with fresh blueberries from the bushes outside, and Mom would complain they were making her fat but devour three before heading to work. Dad would happily eat a whole stack, then shower off his hard work while I washed dishes.

I blink away tears forming at the edges of my eyes, my smile faltering. His face last night flashes through my mind. Firmly set with determination, even as he nodded along when I told him I’d take care of him. He didn’t believe me. And why would he? I’m the one who left and never came back. But I’ll prove to him that I’m capable of caring for him. That a nursing home isn’t something he’ll ever have to consider.

With the lawn mower rumbling and my ceiling fan rocking overhead and the plush shag carpet scrubbing softly against my toes, I can almost pretend things are normal. Can almost pretend I feel certain I’m right.

I’m inviting heartache, the way I’m clinging to all these almosts.

I try not to focus on it as I slip out of my pajama shorts and into denim cutoffs. My sleep shirt, an oversize faded graphic tee from some ex-boyfriend or other, pools on the floor. I catch sight of myself in the vanity mirror—small boobs, soft stomach, bland brown hair sticking out in every direction—before turning away to dig a bra and shirt out of my bag. It remains packed despite an empty closet and chest of drawers waiting to be filled.

For a long, heavy moment I stare at the suitcase, biting my lip. Then, before my mother’s voice spouting all the reasons this was a terrible mistake can get too loud, I escape the time capsule of my room to repeat history.

I pad around the empty kitchen, gathering the ingredients from memory. Blueberries. Flour. Milk. Butter. Some sugar. One hand is perched on the refrigerator door as I survey its contents, searching for a carton of eggs to complete my pancake batter, when a door opening behind me sends my heart into my throat.

I whip around, clutching a whisk against my chest, to see Dad standing in front of his bedroom door. His hair is standing up on one side, cheek red with sheet wrinkles. He blinks at me, confused. “What the fuck are you doing?”

My jaw slackens. Dad never cusses. Mom? Sure. But Dad?

“Excuse me?”

He blinks. The edges of his eyes crinkle, and he shakes his head. “What did you say?”

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