Page 125 of No Greater Oblivion

A flicker of anguish dances across her features. In the dark blue light, her hair looks purple, tan complexion soft and muted. The tremor in her voice when she speaks makes my chest tighten. “Papi is…he’s very difficult to talk about.”

I can hardly hear a word she says, each letter whispered through quivering lips. Her eyes glisten and she’s so desperate to keep the emotion at bay that she brushes the tears away before they even have time to fall. This is a side of her I’ve never seen before. One I wish I knew how to help.

I thought I knew all of Dahlia—her fears, her joys, every strength and weakness. Clearly, I know nothing at all.

“Why don’t you try?” I tell her. “So I can understand better.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t⁠—”

“Why?” I parry back.

“Because—” She opens her mouth to say more but stops herself. Lifts her hands to cover her face a moment before returning her gaze to the window. “What if you see too much?”

“So what if I do?”

Dahlia focuses on the snow on the windowsill.

“Is he alive?” I ask.

She nods.

“Do you know where he is?”

Headshake.

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

Dahlia takes a measured breath. “He called me…earlier this year. I guess someone told him I was moving.”

I frown. “When? In January?”

She shakes her head. “A little later. Around March, I think. It was the week Lettie and I found all those paintings in the attic. I remember because when I went to call you, I noticed I had a voicemail. He’s the only one whoever leaves me voicemails.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She gives a light shrug. “It didn’t feel like something worth sharing.” She closes the album and lowers her legs so she can sit in an upright position. “He asked to see me before I left but I was already gone.”

“You told me he left after you turned eighteen. But you never told me how or why.”

Her jaw tightens and the effort she puts into keeping her composure is noticeable. “Alex, I don’t even know why he left. We didn’t exactly have time to discuss it when he packed his bags and disappeared in the middle of the night.”

“He didn’t leave a note? Never called?”

“He calls. Once a year on my birthday. It’s like a silent agreement between us; he calls and I don’t answer. He leaves his voicemail in peace and I can decide whether or not I want to listen to it.”

I wish I knew what to say.

The irony of it all. I have a dead father, she has a dead mother, and we both have living parents who are gone without actually being gone. Just lost to us.

“I hadn’t remembered how close we were…sometimes, I forget.” Her brows furrow as she speaks, each word out of her mouth a surprise to her. “He hurt me so deeply. I loved and resented him in equal measure but I had nowhere to put those emotions. Nowhere to lay them to rest. All I could do was bury them as deeply as I could and hope that with time, I would forget. I even hoped they might disappear but they didn’t. They planted roots and blossomed into something else.”

Her eyes shut and a single tear slips free. I don’t touch her, don’t reach for her. This is something she needs to feel on her own.

“I lie to myself all the time. I tell myself I had a father who wasn’t there because it hurts less than having a father who loved me and still chose to leave. One who picked me up when I fell and held me until I felt better. I’ve been alone so long…it felt so strange. To watch those videos and go through photo albums and be reminded of a family that doesn’t exist anymore. My parents were flawed; deeply flawed. But I know they loved me. And instead of being grateful for the reminder, I wish I could forget again. What do I do with all of it? What do I do with all the love and all the resentment when I have a mother who’s dead and a father who’s gone? Where do I put it?”

“You can let someone carry it with you.”

“You?” she replies skeptically.