Page 127 of From Air

Stripped of confidence, all coherent thought, and my identity, I find my legs. His words carry measurable weight, and it’s hard to stand beneath such a heavy reality.

Nathans stands, too, sliding the papers back into the envelope. “Do you have any questions?”

Everything feels lethargic; even my gaze takes forever to find his face. “I havemanyquestions.” I blink several times. “But the person who can answer them is dead.”

His expression wilts. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sorry.I let the word bounce around in my head. Sorry for what?

A bear eating my mother?

My father starting a fire that killed people, including Fitz’s family?

Living a lie?

Falling in love with a man I can never have?

Losing the woman who I thought was my mother?

He hands me the envelope. It takes me a few seconds to reach for it. I don’t want it. But what I want doesn’t matter anymore. My life is simplywhat is.

Chapter Forty-One

We don’t choose our family.

I conjure a dozen ways to make sense of this and another dozen excuses to let the past go and pretend it’s not real.

The previous shift said Dwight was agitated during the night. This morning, he’s medicated and barely responsive. I pull up a chair next to his bed. He cracks open his eyes, and they’re lifeless. My heart climbs up my throat, swelling, aching,suffocating.

Maybe yesterday’s revelation shouldn’t matter. I’d reconciled with the idea that he was my uncle. Somehow, I’d managed to distance myself from him.

Uncles rarely nurture or raise their nieces. Memories made with uncles might include holiday gatherings, perhaps a shared vacation with cousins.

But fathers, at least in my dreams, they create life. They blow raspberries on little tummies because they love the sound of giggling. They hold tiny hands when they cross the street. They carry miniature versions of themselves on their shoulders—with love and pride.

Fathers read bedtime stories and chase away monsters.

They dry tears and kiss boo-boos.

Fathers are guardians of hearts and protectors of innocence.

I rest my hand on my father’s cheek.

“Barbara,” he murmurs while his eyes drift shut.

Tears spill down my face, and I choke on a sob.

“Watch out ... f-for bears.” His froggy voice carries so much agony that my heart can barely take it.

I imagine the intense level ofmadlove he possessed for my mom to have lost his mind, all sense of self-preservation, and all touch with reality to do something so egregious.

“I will,” I breathe, stroking my thumb along his cheek. My head rests on the edge of his bed. “I w-will.” Everything blurs behind unrelenting tears as I shake with silent sobs.

By Saturday, I have four missed calls from Fitz and a string of unanswered texts.

After half a glass of wine, my hand stops shaking enough to press his name on my phone.

“What is going on?” he asks. No “hi” or “how are you?”

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