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She stares out the front of her Mercedes. “What did you want me to tell them? That’s all I knew. Our friends. Family. Neighbors. What was I supposed to say?” Her tone has an edge.
I don’t blame her for being upset.
“I hate that I left you to deal with everything. But if I would have stayed?—”
She doesn’t look at me while reaching for my hand, squeezing it. “I know. You don’t have to explain. What’s happened is awful. And there’s no easy way through it. There’s no easy way to explain it. Even now … what will we tell people? That you’ve been miraculously cured of terminal cancer? And is that even true? Is your cancer gone? That can’t be true. Can it?”
Lifting her hand to my lips, I kiss it. “Well, I don’t feel like I have cancer. So we tell them I’m alive. That’s it. We don’t owe anyone anything. I can’t let myself worry about it. I can’t let you worry about it. Sometimes selfishness is self-preservation.”
Amelia turns her head, eyes slightly narrowed. After a few seconds, she gives me a single nod.
“There she is.” I open my door as Astrid exits the building, chatting with a group of friends. When she sees me, she freezes. The next ten seconds feel like one of those videos where a parent—serving in the military for a long time—finally returns home. I tell myself I’m not going to get all emotional.
Such a lie.
“Dad!” She drops her bag on the ground and sprints toward me.
I’m not going to die of cancer; I’m going to die of happy heartbreak.
I lift her off her feet and turn in a slow circle while she cries.
“Are you better?”
“I’m better, baby.”
Please, God. Let it be true.
“Astrid, you left your bag.” Her friend holds out the bag as I set Astrid on her feet.
“Thanks.” She wipes her tears and takes the bag.
“Are you okay?” her friend asks.
Astrid glances up at me and smiles. “I’m great.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
IT’S THE BIGGER PICTURE.
The hero’shomecoming doesn’t last. I guess beating death (yes, yes … knock on wood) isn’t as heroic as risking one’s life for one's country.
Astrid’s life goes on as it should.
Dance.
Flute.
Swimming.
Golf.
Amelia volunteers at the school and works twenty hours a week with the advertising agency, mostly from home.
And I exist.
“Have you thought about visiting the oncologist?” Amelia asks from the bathroom, curling her hair after school drop-off while I read a book in bed.
“I have not.” I keep my eyes on the page.
