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Right now, I can’t do any of those things. I don’t feel like breaking anything. Or singing. I don’t have the energy to undertake any physical activity or the clarity of mind to focus on any task. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. So here I am drinking all by myself.
I flip the invitation over and find my father’s photo on the other side. At once, the corners of my lips turn up into a smile. Who chose this photo? Mom? I probably would have chosen something else, maybe one where he’s awake and looking at the camera. And yet, this one captures my dad perfectly – asleep at his desk with his gold-rimmed glasses still on, a bunch of files serving as his pillow. I guess it’s fitting that it’s where his ashes now sit.
I run my fingertips over the glossy paper.
Bart Nicholson. Tough. Hard-working. Relentless. Incredible lawyer.
That’s probably how most people will remember him. Not me. Of course, I know he was a great lawyer. There’s not a day that goes by when I’m not trying to be one just like him, whether I’m in a courtroom or in a meeting with a client or just in my office going through files like he was in this picture. But my fondest memories of him will be of the times we spent together at home when I was growing up – us making pancakes or tacos, us playing chess on the patio, us watching quiz shows, us decorating the tree, us secretly meeting in the kitchen for ice cream after Mom was asleep. Of course, I won’t forget the camping trips, either, or that time before I went to college when the two of us traveled through Greece. Sure, he wasn’t the perfect father. He was often busy, sometimes grumpy. Still, he tried to be there for me. Even after he and my mom divorced, he still made an effort to spend time with me.
A lawyer first but a father forever. That’s what he used to tell me.
Well, now he’s neither of those things. He’s gone. Killed in a car accident like thousands of others every year. The worst part is that I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I spoke to him the day he died. He was fine. The next phone call I got was the one telling me he was in a hospital morgue.
I press his photo against my chest with both hands.
Why did you leave me, Dad? What am I going to do without you?
My chest clamps. My shoulders tremble. I squeeze my eyes shut and crumple the edges of the photo, waiting for the tears to come. Maybe if they did, some of the burden on my chest and shoulders might be lifted. Maybe the knots in my thoughts would come undone. Maybe if I let myself go I can let my dad go and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll both be at peace.
Come on, Jodie. It can’t be that hard.
A sudden creak shatters my concentration. I open my eyes, staring down the hall that leads to the kitchen with furrowed eyebrows as I put down the invitation in my hands.
What was that?
I’m about to dismiss it as a trick of my imagination but then I hear another sound, a soft thud this time. I may be drunk but I’m not deaf. The question is: What caused it? A breeze from a window a guest opened and forgot to close knocking over something light, like a picture frame or a plastic cup? Or maybe just gravity at work on a precarious stack of books in the office or bowls in the sink? Or something more unnatural, like a ghost? My father’s ghost, maybe?
Strange. I never believed in ghosts and yet, now, I would give anything just to see my father again in whatever form, even for just a few seconds, just so I can tell him that I love him, so I can thank him for everything he’s taught me and been to me, and so I can say goodbye. The mere thought of it, hope of it, sends my heart hammering inside my chest.
“Dad?”
I spring to my feet but stagger as my head reels. My knee bumps against the edge of the table and I lean on it, nearly knocking over the bottle of wine. Shit.
I take a moment to steady myself and clear my head. Then I walk down the hall. I step inside the library just as the door to the adjoining study opens. My breath catches as I lock eyes with the man in the doorway.
Blue eyes. Not a piercing blue, but soothing like the sky when you wake up from an afternoon nap on a lazy Sunday in summer.
Kind eyes. Sad eyes. Eyes I’ve dreamed of hundreds of times before. They stare out of a face with striking features – a strong nose, a pair of thin lips, a razor-sharp jawline and a square, freshly shaved chin. That face is framed with the same sea of dark honey colored hair I used to drown my gaze in whenever I walked behind him. It’s longer now, half combed and held back and the rest nearly touching his shoulders in a wavy cascade. It suits him.
