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This is wrong. When did he get so old?
“Cold iron for her,” he says ominously. “That will show them all. Cold iron for all the bitches.”
“Dad!”
He blinks twice and his eyes focus. It’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time. Recognition is on his face as he frowns.
“Quinn?” his voice trembles.
“It’s me, Daddy,” I say. “You don’t talk that way. Now put the skillet down.”
He pulls the skillet against his chest and clamps it tight with both arms.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, and tears fall from his eyes. “I need this. I need the iron. The cold, that’s what your mom used to say. Cold iron is the key.”
“I never said no such thing,” Mom says.
“Keep that demon away,” Dad says, stumbling back until he’s up against the kitchen cabinets. He points a trembling finger at Mom. “Quinn, it’s not her. That’s a monster. Stay away from her. He’s coming for you, Quinn. Don’t you give in.”
“Who is, Daddy?”
“The raven-man,” he says.
I stop, barely able to breathe. Dugald? He can’t know Dugald. I stare into my father’s steely gray eyes, studying every wrinkle, every age spot. He’s a shell of the man who raised me, but beneath this aged exterior is the hard core of the man I know. The love he gave me is so big it hurts. The love I feel for him now and the despair of seeing his decline, it’s all too much.
“What raven-man, Daddy?” I reach for him and my hands tremble as they cross the space between us. I touch his leathery cheek, rough with a few days’ stubble. His eyes stare past, seeing things I don’t. “What man, Daddy? Do you see him now?”
“Quinn?” he says, his voice shaking. A tear drops, tracing the lines on his face. “Quinn, baby. Who is that? Why is she here?”
His eyes have locked on to my mother, who’s a few steps behind. It breaks my heart into a million pieces. Their love story has been my education in what love should be. High school sweethearts who’ve never been apart. He went to war, and she waited. He came home and they had me, built a life together, filled with love and joy.
“It’s Mom, Daddy. She’s taking care of you.”
His eyes seem to clear, coming into focus as he shifts his gaze to mine. He shakes his head. Leaning in closer, he whispers.
“That’s not your mother.”
Cold chills race over my arms. I shiver and glance back to see if she heard him. I can’t imagine how much that would hurt her if she knew he said that. As she comes into my peripheral vision, before my eyes can focus, there’s a shimmer. That weird, stuttering lag happens again, and for barely an instant it’s not my mom there. It’s the briefest flash; an old, haggard woman is there who reminds me of the Crone I faced in the Fae lands.
The moment is over as fast as it happens. My mom is there with her hands over her mouth, tears glistening in her eyes. She heard him. That much is obvious. She’s choking back her emotions in that very Midwestern practicality way. If I learned anything it’s that you don’t ever let them see they’ve hurt you.
“Daddy, it is Mom,” I put an arm around his shoulders and push him to move towards his bed. “Come, let’s get you to bed. Have you taken your medicine?”
“He refused,” Mom says. Her voice is tight, almost choked, but she’s putting up a good front.
“No.” He shakes his head but the fight is gone. “I don’t like them.”
“I know, Daddy,” I say.
I take the cast-iron skillet from his now pliable hands and set it down on the counter before guiding him towards his bed. He doesn’t resist, as docile as a sheep. Mom and I get him into bed and his eyes are drifting closed before I finish pulling his blankets over him. Mom pours a glass of water and lifts him up to take his pills.
The room closes in and I’m so claustrophobic I want to run. I need space. Need to breathe, so I leave her to finish settling him in. In the living room I close my eyes and let the familiarity of the space and all the memories of my childhood provide what small comfort they can. Mom is a collector, edging towards being a hoarder, and my dad enabled her. The room is cluttered with hundreds of Precious Moments statues. Every available bit of space is filled with the small sculptures of cherubic kids doing something cute.
Overstuffed bookshelves sit on either side of the television, the shelves bowed under the weight of the hundreds of books. Lots of Dad’s westerns, including an entire special edition set of Zane Grey and what must be every Louis L ’amour book ever published. Mom’s collection of Readers Digest condensed works interspersed with encyclopedia’s, world books, and every yearbook from my school days. Dust dots the shelves, and in some of the corners are cobwebs. Mom can’t keep up with the housekeeping and who can blame her?
Still, the familiarity and the smells are comforting. This is home, and even if Dad is different, the house is the same. I pace around the room, moving around the furniture. The wall opposite of the TV has a desk covered with papers. A stack of mail and envelopes sit on the corner. I poke at them for no more reason than looking for something to occupy my mind while I wait on Mom.
The haphazard stack of envelopes tumbles. I try to gather them back into a stack, but flashes of red print catch my attention. I pull the envelope out and notice the largePast Duestamp. It’s the electric bill. And here’s another one from a bank. And one from a credit card.
