His thick red mane that Archie and I inherited is gone, replaced with tufts of feathery white hair. I’m surprised he hasn’t just shaved his head until I see a wig that looks just like his old hair perched on a stand on the shelves behind him. Then I understand: he has a reason for letting us see him like this. And I doubt it has anything to do with actual vulnerability.
Another light bulb pops on…I come by my acting skills honestly. Whether by nature or nurture—maybe both—I’ve inherited them from Malcolm.
He’s on a call and points us toward the three chairs, side-by-side, across the desk from him. Quietly, we slide into the seats, slipping right into the part we’re used to playing—seen and not heard until Malcolm’s ready for us.
Suddenly, his face goes red, and he tugs at the knot in his tie. “Sorry, Walter,” he says into the mobile in a hoarse voice.
Sybil rushes over, takes the mobile and calmly says, “Mr. Forsythe will be right back.” Then mutes the call.
Only then does Malcolm let out a long dry, hacking noise. While he hacks, Sybil pours him a glass of water, but he’s coughing too hard to take it from her. Archie stands like hewants to do something. Malcolm glares at him, and he sits back down.
We wait, shifting in our seats like they’re covered in fleas, but we don’t want to make our host uncomfortable by pointing it out. Finally, Malcolm’s able to take some deep breaths and loud gulps of water. Beads of sweat dot his almost bald head.
Sybil helps him stand and slip off the thick, silk robe he’s wearing. Dark circles dampen the pits of the crisp button-up he has on underneath his robe. A tube peeks from between the buttons of his shirt, and I follow it to a black pump at his side. It beeps, echoing the sound I heard on our call with Sybil this morning.
He loosens his tie and collar before sinking back into his high-backed leather chair, engulfed by his own throne. “Tell Mr. Osaka I’ll ring him at five o’clock.”
“Yes Mr. Forsythe.” Sybil hovers for a second, making sure he’s okay, before padding across the room and shutting the doors behind her.
“You look well,” Malcolm says to all three of us collectively and offers a tight smile.
“You don’t,” I shoot back.
His lip tugs higher. “Still as direct as ever, Francesca. Good to know some things don’t change.”
I open my mouth to say something. Piper grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“We were sorry to hear about the cancer,” Piper says politely, like she’s talking to an acquaintance and not the man who played father to her for nearly a decade.
Malcolm nods. “Bit sorry myself.”
“Wish we would have known earlier, Dad,” Archie says quietly.
Malcolm nods slowly before his eyes drift to mine, like he’s expecting me to say something. I'm not sure what thatsomething is. I wish I could say I’m sorry. I wish I could say I hate that he’s sick.
Part of me does hate it. The part that will never quit wishing Malcolm were the kind of dad who would greet me with anI’ve missed youor even anI love youinstead of an appraisal likeyou’re still direct.I’d like to hear something genuinely affectionate from him at least once in my life.
“So why did you want to see us?” Piper asks.
Malcolm clasps his hands on the desktop. “Frankie and Archie…you’re my legacy. And whatever you think about me, Piper, I reckon you’re family again now that you're engaged to Archie.”
He stares at her. She squirms in her chair. All of us are still getting used to the idea of Piper being Archie’s wife instead of stepsister—and nemesis, in Archie’s case.
Malcolm shifts papers on his desk and clears his throat. “I’d hoped to have more time to put my affairs in order, but my doctors haven’t seen the progress they’d hoped to with the chemo. My white blood cell count is still too high,” he reports with less emotion than if he were giving us a stock report.
“Sybil said odds are around fifteen percent. That’s still something,” Archie says, a bit desperately.
“Not even Sybil knows the full scale of this cancer.” Malcolm’s scoff turns into another cough, though not as jarring as his last.
“So, you’re actually dying?” I ask once he’s stopped.
He lets out a short laugh. “You could pretend to be a little more upset about that, daughter dear. But yes. That seems to be the case. I have one more round of chemo. But unless some miracle happens, it’ll be my last.”
I look at Archie, who’s blinking hard, working to process this news. Then I realize my eyes are wet, and I don’t know if my tears are out of sadness or pity or anger. Likely all of them.
“Why did you keep this a secret for so long?” I ask.
He cocks his head, and I wonder if he’s as surprised by the question as I am. “How exactly was I supposed to do that, Francesca? I’m not the only one who’s kept secrets.”
