I worried about my shadows being too much for Oliver because they were too much for Daniel. Sometimes they’re even too much for me. I feared getting too close because of how suddenly I lost my dad. His death showed me how easily my world could come to a screeching halt, throwing me out of orbit, sending me hurtling through the darkness.
If I could just keep him at arm’s length, I could avoid the anguish that came from being too much for Oliver or too close to him.
To anyone.
“The bottom line is, we love you,” Lucy speaks up. “We’re here for you.”
“But you clearly think I made a mistake,” I say. “You all do.”
“We don’t know that,” Ellie replies. “Wecan’tknow that.”
Kayla leans her head against mine. “But even if you did, it doesn’t matter. We’re always going to be in your corner.”
“She’s right, you know.” Willow pokes me in the arm. “We love you.”
“I love y’all too,” I say.
“Me most of all, of course.” Lucy beams, rifling through her sack of goodies. “Look, we’re here to help you feel better, and I think I have just the thing.” She plucks out five thin packages, holding them up proudly.
“Whatcha got there, Mary Poppins?” Kayla asks.
Lucy flashes us a mischievous grin and tears open one of the packets, placing a printed sheet mask on her face that I think is supposed to look like the Grinch but more closely resembles an alien.
“That is…truly frightening,” I say with a laugh.
“Oh, just put them on.” Lucy passes out the remaining masks before squeezing in next to Willow on the couch, resting her feet in her lap.
We do as she says, and Kayla reaches for a Red Vine. “You guys ready to start the movie?”
They look to me, and I manage a weak smile. “Sure.”
The next morning,I stop by the office on the way back to Mom’s for Christmas Eve under the guise of calling to check on a patient whose number I forgot to bring home. Lucy knows there’s no such patient but goes along with the story, letting our mother know I’m going to be a little late.
Even after Ellie and Kayla left to go home, Willow and Lucy stayed up to watch movies with me. Once I finally convinced them to go to bed, I laid on their couch in the dark beneath a pile of blankets for hours. Their words haunted me like a ghost lingering in the corner of the room. The pain in my body had finally subsided, but the hurt in my heart had only grown.
Did I react too quickly?WasI just self-sabotaging? And even if I was, does that mean my actions were wrong? Maybe I did blow everything up, but I did it to avoid an even bigger explosion later. I’d rather deal with the fallout from a bottle rocket than a stick of dynamite.
The bells hanging from the front door jingle loudly as I enter through the front lobby, closing the door with a thud. The office is silent, but I can still hear the echoes of my father’s robust laugh. It’s harder to hear when the clinic is abuzz and filled with patients, but when everything is quiet, that’s when his memory comes alive. And right now, I just want to feel close to him.
In some ways, this place looks different, a byproduct of five years of growth. But then there are the things that remain the same. The artwork left exactly where my father hung it. A small gash in the wall from the time he tried to move one of the exam tables by himself. The pen marks etched in the desk where he used to fill out paperwork. So many pieces of him linger here.
Of course, I feel his presence in my childhood home, but there’s something special about this place. Something that’s so completely him. I can almost smell the scent of his coffee as I bounded into his office after school when I was sixteen, working as the receptionist. I can almost see him round the corner in his white coat, his wire rim glasses sliding down his nose.
I step into my office, the one that was once his, and pick up the picture of the two of us. I study his broad smile and the lines that map his face, every road where laughter and sorrow intersected on display.
“I’m a mess, Dad,” I say to his image, frozen in time. “I wish you were here.”
My phone buzzes from inside my coat pocket, and for half a second, I hope it’s Oliver. But reality sets in when I pry it out and see my sister’s name on the screen.
You okay?
I tap out a quick reply.
Yeah. About to head that way.
I go to lock the phone, but stop, hovering my finger over the button. Instead, I swipe my finger over my message threads until I find Oliver’s name. Is he okay? Is he working or home alone? Did he decide to fly back to Texas last minute? So many questions to which I don’t have the right to know the answers.
I know he probably doesn’t want to hear from me, but I can’t allow this day to go by without letting him know he’s on my mind.
