Page 7 of Since the Day We Left

“Already started.” Arthur gestured toward an empty coffeepot with water stains tracking down its side before moving from cabinet to cabinet—opening one, then another, then circling back—while Miles stepped away and surveyed the living room.

Piles of unread mail. Dishes with crusty food remnants. A blanket in a heap on the floor, like his dad had been sleeping on the couch. Dust covered the framed photos—Miles’s graduation, his parents’ anniversary, and his mom in the hospital when he was born.

And then the paintings. Stacked. Propped. Covering every inch of available space.

Almost all showed the same scene: the cove where they’d spread his mom’s ashes. Some at sunrise, others at sunset, the water shifting from silver to gold to dark blue. But the curve of the shore and the rocks remained constant. In each one, two small figures stood at the water’s edge—a man and a boy.

CRASH!

Miles snapped back from his thoughts.

He bolted.

“Dadgummit!” Arthur shouted. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, his right hand clenched against his side. Coffee grounds lay like black sand across the counter, dripping down onto the floor. Fragments of glass glinted on the tile where the coffeepot had exploded.

“Dad—” Miles approached, stepping carefully around the glass shards.

Arthur flinched.

“I need to check it.” Miles took his dad’s hand, finding a red mark where hot water had scalded him. He led Arthur over to the sink. “It’s not too bad,” Miles said, running cool water over the burn. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“First aid ...”

“Medicine cabinet? Bathroom?”

Silence.

“Dad?”

Arthur looked up, blinking rapidly, his forehead creased. “Arthur, you need to finish that painting before the Lighthouse Festival. They’re expecting five new pieces by Friday.”

“Dad ...” Miles tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “It’s me, Miles. Your son.”

Arthur yanked his hand away, splashing water on the counter. “I know who you are. But we need to go. Before she leaves.”

“Before who leaves?”

“Elaine!” Arthur’s eyes cleared with sudden urgency. “Your mom. She’s waiting for us at the cove.” He patted his pockets. “Where’s my keys?”

“Dad, I don’t—”

“The painting I finished yesterday—where is it? I need to bring it to her.”

“Which one?”

“The cove.” Arthur’s voice cracked. “The one with her in it. She gave it to me—I have to give it back.”

The back of Miles’s neck prickled. His dad wasn’t just confused; he was somewhere else entirely.

Miles spotted a canvas propped against the fridge—another cove scene, this one at twilight, painted in deep purples and blues. He carefully stepped around the broken glass and picked it up. “This one?”

Arthur’s hands trembled as he reached for it. “No. Not this one. The colors are all wrong.” His fingers drifted over the painted shoreline. “The sun was setting, and ...”

Miles unclenched his fists, one finger at a time. The Alzheimer’s pamphlets from Dr. Mendez’s office flashed through his mind.

Redirect, don’t correct.

Miles took a deliberate breath and softened his tone. “Tell me more, Dad.”

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