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Eileen’s eyes light up. “Amelia’s here?”
I grab a framed photo of Amelia holding Emmie in the hospital and hold it out to her, pointing at Emmie. “No. She’s at home with Emmie, but they’ll be in to see you soon.” I set the picture back down. “I’m here because I’m planning a surprise for Amelia, and I need your help.”
She smiles brightly. “Surprise. What kind of surprise?”
“A wedding,” I say.
Her brow furrows, and she looks over at our photoshopped wedding picture. “But you already had one.”
“We did,” I lie. “But it was small and quick. Amelia deserves a big, fancy wedding.”
“Of course she does,” Eileen agrees.
“That’s why I’m going to propose to her again, but I need to ask you something first.”
“Well, go on.”
Emotion clogs my throat. She doesn’t know this is the first time I’m asking, but I know. I know what this means to Amelia. “Are you happy with me? As a partner for your daughter?”
Eileen pauses for a moment, looking at me. She opens her mouth and tries to say something, but nothing comes out. This happens sometimes. Another thing with Alzheimer’s. It’s like the words escape her brain and she can’t pull them back in.
“I—you—” She looks a little panicked, and it breaks my heart. I grab her water from her nightstand and hand it to her.
“Here, take a drink.”
She nods and takes a few sips. “You’re a sweet man. I think you love my daughter and granddaughter very much. That’s all I want.” Her words are garbled as she finishes speaking, and she takes another drink. “But don’t forget to talk to her father.”
Mackie’s eyes dart to me, but I give her a tiny nod, then turn back to Eileen, squeezing her hand. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“It’s good with me. Take care of her. Her father and I won’t always be here, you know.”
I close my eyes for a second, forcing a breath to keep my emotions at bay. I know it better than she does. “I know,” I say, voice raw. “And I will always take care of her and Emmie, not just because I love them, but for both of you as well.” I mean every word. Her father is gone and her mother can’t take care of her anymore. For the rest of my life, I will take care of Amelia from my heart, and for the people she’s lost who can’t do the same.
Chapter eleven
Not a Robot
Amelia
Dear Dad,
I’ve never done this before. Never sat down and wrote to you. Sometimes I’ve talked to you. Especially when Mom was first diagnosed. I used to beg you to haunt me just so I could talk to you again, but I realized your spirit is hopefully at peace and there shouldn’t be any haunting.
I’ve been going to therapy, and one way I process all my shit is to write in a journal about it. Given what this week is, it felt appropriate to write to you this time. Because I have so much to tell you, and I want to believe you can see this—see me. See the life I’m living.
First thing’s first. You have a granddaughter. Her name is Emmie Mae—after your mom and mine. And Miles’s. That’s the other thing you need to know. I’ve found a good man. One you’d love. I could see you two sitting around the living room, laughing and joking, while Mom and I sipped tea and baked cookies in the kitchen. Miles is kind, supportive, and deeply loving. You couldn’t have designed a better man for me. Though it’s hard to move through these big life changes without you, I’m happy. I’m kind of stupidly, ridiculously happy, actually. I finally applied to law school, too.
Mom is hanging in there. Alzheimer’s has stolen many things from her, but not her memory of you. Maybe the only blissful thing that has come from it is that she’s forgotten you died. She asks when you’re coming to see her, and I always tell her soon. I hope I’m not lying. I hope you visit her. In her dreams or something. Somehow. She still needs you. More than ever now.
In two days, it’ll be eight years since you passed. It feels as raw as it did then. I miss you. I really fucking miss you. I miss your hugs. I miss our conversations. I just miss you. I hope you’re looking over me, seeing me with Miles and Emmie, and looking after Mom. I hope I’m making you proud.
I’m going to be grumpy and cranky and sad the next few days, and I think that’s okay. I’m tired of trying to hide my feelings and pretend I’m okay when I’m not. I’m still struggling with how to talk to Miles about this. I know he’ll support me, but I don’t know how to say the words. I don’t want to. Saying them now is like saying them back then. Making phone calls and telling people. It broke me. I don’t want to relive that feeling.
This helps. I like feeling like I’m talking to you. Even if I can’t hear your response, it’s better than nothing.
I miss you, Daddy. I love you.
Amelia
