Page 28 of The Immortal's One
I glance up from my oatmeal, the unsettling sense of foreboding that’s been following me all morning tightening around my chest.
Dad stands in the kitchen doorway, his laptop clutched in one hand, brown hair messy, looking like he’s been up for days. The weight of exhaustion hangs on him more than it ever has before. The dark circles under his steel blue eyes are so deep now that they seem permanent.
“Of course.” I hesitantly lower my spoon into the bowl. “Is everything okay?”
“As good as it gets, I guess.” He shuffles into the kitchen, moving slower than usual. His skin has a strange, ashen quality, and the faint tremor in his hand as he sets the laptop on the counter doesn’t escape me. It's impossible to shake off my worry every time I look at him.
Dad shuffles over to the coffee maker, almost dropping the coffee mug he takes out of the cabinet above. I bite my cheek,the urge to help him nearly unbearable. But I know better than to offer. He wouldn’t appreciate it.
Less than a month ago, Dad was diagnosed with stage three lymphoma after collapsing during a seminar at the University of Athens. When the doctors ran tests, they discovered bruises—both fresh and old—and a lump in his neck.
We came back to Maine months early so he could start treatment. His doctors scheduled him to begin chemo right away, but Dad requested to wait. He wanted to finish the first draft of his latest book first.
His decision infuriated me, and my anger flares when Dad opens his laptop and the offending document fills the screen.
He needs to rest, but he doesn’t want all the work he’s poured into this book to go to waste. He says he doesn’t know if he’ll feel up to working while doing chemo. I understand where he’s coming from, but I can't stand to see him push himself to the brink of collapse.
The rhythmic sound of his fingers tapping on the keyboard fills the room, making the silence between us even more deafening. I continue to stare at him.
When he still doesn’t look up, I clear my throat. “Ahem.”
Distracted eyes peer at me over the laptop. “Yes?”
I press my lips together, half amused, half irritated. “Didn’t you want to talk to me about something?”
“Oh, right.” He closes the laptop with a rueful smile. I smile back, even though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I heard you come in late last night. Where were you?”
I blink. I can’t remember the last time Dad acted like a parent, asking me where I’d been. He’s treated me like an adult ever since I turned sixteen. “I went to Portland with Kayla.”
“Oh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I forgot.”
More like I didn’t tell him. A twinge of guilt pulls at me.
“What did you two do in Portland?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Well, actually… we went to a club.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “A club?”
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat.
He stares at me for a beat. “I see. Well… did you have fun?”
“I did,” I answer honestly.
Aside from dodging a few unwanted dance partners, I had a good time. Kayla and Josh were great; neither made me feel out of place as a third wheel.
Dad smiles, but it’s fleeting. His eyes drift down to his hands, resting on the laptop. A shadow falls over his face.
Intuition presses me to ask, “Is there something else?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. Then he speaks, his voice quieter. “Actually, yes. I’ve been thinking about visiting New York this week to meet with my publisher.”
My heart sinks.
“Dad…” My voice is tight. “You can’t be serious.”
“What do you mean?” He lifts his gaze, eyes narrowing. “My treatment doesn’t start until after the holidays. Now would be the perfect time to go.”
