Page 56 of Iron Heart

“I can do that, for sure. I don’t have any plans.” I say, then remember something. “Oh, except I am meeting Dad for dinner tonight. But that’s the only thing.”

My mom turns to me, her face suddenly pinched. “The first thing you do when you come home is turn around and go out with your father?” she says testily.

“Mom. Come on.” I swallow down my frustration, not wanting to cause any waves. “You’ll have the whole rest of the weekend with me. Okay?”

Mom looks as though she wants to say something more, but purses her lips and turns away. Thankfully, after being quiet for a few seconds, she changes the subject to shopping plans for tomorrow. I tune her out and nod along, lost in my own thoughts.

I meet my dad for dinner at one of our favorite places: King’s. It’s a family restaurant we’ve been going to since I was a kid. Primarily because they have the best chocolate malts in town. I haven’t seen my dad in a while, and I’m relieved that he looks like he’s in good health. His close-cropped light brown hair is showing signs of gray at the temples, and the creases around his eyes are a little deeper. But other than that, he seems like he’s doing okay.

I order my standard: a single cheeseburger with fries (and of course, the malt). My dad gets a tuna melt, a basket of onion rings, and a butterscotch malt. I tease him that butterscotch is gross, just like I always do.

“So, how’s my best girl?” he asks me after we order. He leans back in the booth and gives me his characteristic dad wink. The cold ball that’s been sitting in my stomach since Dante stormed out of my place begins to melt just a little.

“I’m fine. Work’s okay, I guess. Ironwood’s same old, same old.” I pause. “I did have an electrical problem — old wiring that needed to be updated — but I got that fixed.”

“That’s a lot of house for one person,” he says. It’s his standard line about Aunt Jeanne’s house. “You ever give any thought to selling it?”

“Not really. Maybe someday,” I say noncommittally.

His smile falters. “How’s… you know?” He taps his chest. My dad doesn’t like to say the wordheart.

“I’m fine,” I reassure him gently. “Taking my pills just like the doctor ordered. No problems.” Except for the attack I had with Dante, but my dad doesn’t need to know that. He frets enough already about me the way it is.

“That’s good,” he breathes. “I know your mother worries.”

That’s another standard Dad line. He has trouble talking about his own feelings, so he talks about Mom’s instead. Always has. But for some reason, when he does it now, it touches off a nerve inside me.

“You shouldn’t worry about what Mom’s state of mind,” I find myself saying, more than a hint of bitterness in my voice. “It’s not like she bothers worrying about you.”

Dad blinks in surprise. He contemplates me for a second, like he’s trying to think of how to reply.

“Your mother…” he finally murmurs. “She’s had a hard time.”

“So have you, Dad,” I reply, trying with difficulty to temper my tone. “Both of you had a hard time when I was diagnosed. Mom didn’t have a monopoly on worrying about her kid.”

I’ve always resented the way Mom made Dad feel like my heart problems were his fault. But now I’m realizing I’m also kind of mad that my dad never stood up to her about it.

“Of course it was hard, Tori,” he frowns. “But…”

“I mean, Dad, don’t brush that off!” I interrupt. “Itwashard for you. And Mom seemed to take every opportunity to make you feel even worse than you already did.” I stop myself short, but my question hangs in the air in front of me.Why didn’t you call her on it?

Dad looks away, his eyes landing gratefully on the waitress who arrives with our food. I watch as she sets our plates and malts in front of us, then leaves. My Dad makes a remark about how hungry he is, and reaches for an onion ring. I sigh, and pick up a fry, then dip it into my malt — a ritual from when I was a kid.

We eat for a minute or so in silence. I’m pretty sure this conversation topic is finished. But just when I’m starting to cast about for something else to talk about, my dad clears his throat.

“You know, Tori,” he says quietly. “When people get married, they do it because of all the happy times they’ve had together. The good stuff. The fun stuff. Oh,” he waves a hand. “You say your vows about in sickness and in health. And you mean it. But it’s hard to really think about the bad stuff when it hasn’t happened yet.”

Dad stares down at his plate. I’m looking at him, begging him in my mind to continue. Hardly daring to move.

We’ve never talked about this. Ever. Not even when my parents told me they were getting divorced.

“The thing is,” he sighs. “When things do get rough, sometimes you find out that you don’t have what it takes to make the other person feel better. And then sometimes, you realize that what the other person needs is…” He stops. “Well, that’s neither here nor there.”

“No.” I insist. “Tellme.Tell me what you were going to say, Dad.”

He takes in a breath. “Your mother suffered a lot when you got sick.”

“So did you,” I say again, stubbornly.

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