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Mum’s nod seemed heavy. Final. “They’re happy about it since Dana always wanted to live in the tropics.”
“Morning.” Samuel stumbles into the kitchen while rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry I slept in.”
“You didn’t. It’s only eight, and you had a late night.”
“Emergency needed extra hands. Friday night is when everything turns nuts.”
“Go back to bed.” I offer an understanding smile. “You need the rest.”
“Dad-da.” Rose holds out her hands, and his face softens.
“Hello, beautiful girl.” He takes her from Dad and swings her into the air. “Dad-da has missed you.” He plants an exaggerated kiss on her cheek. “Do you want to go shopping?” He turns to me. “Have you found any furniture online?”
Furniture has been the furthest thought in my brain. At this point, I don’t care if we sit on the floor. Can’t he see his health is our main priority, not furniture shopping? “I thought we’d have a quiet day.”
“We have a matter of weeks to organize furniture, and some can take months to be delivered.”
“This is true,” Mum adds.
The start of… getting his ducks in a row.
At least the three of us will be together.
* * *
We arrive home mid-afternoon, exhausted. While Samuel and Rose take an afternoon nap, I open Gran’s journal.
Following Yasmine’s advice, I’m distracting myself from worrying about Samuel. I understand he’s on a path of recovery and finding a new purpose, and it’s giving him a new direction and consistency. In consistency, he’s finding security despite what he’s doing to his health.
We are his responsibility.
His words, not mine.
He’s stubborn in doing the right thing by us. The problem is his idea of doing right by us and working himself to the ground isn’t what I want. It’s his father’s belief, and when we meet, I’ll be giving Dr. McMahon, Sr. a piece of my mind.
Samuel mumbles in his sleep. I don’t wake him, only listen. He sounds distressed. Anxious. Nothing he murmurs is comprehendible.
“Nooo.” He gasps then rolls on his side.
For now, the nightmares may be the only way for him to deal with the trauma.
I don’t wake him.
Instead, I distract myself as Yasmine suggested, and read the next page of Gran’s journal.
18
IVY
January 5, 1963
Christmas came and went with minimal celebration.
I have received no letters from home, yet I’m unsure of the time a letter would take to find me, or it may even be confiscated somewhere between the Venezuelan shore and our camp. Every night, I hope and pray my husband and son are healthy and happy.
Are they missing me as much as I’m missing them?
Some of us celebrated in the new year when Jennifer brought bottles of alcohol from the Canaima resort. I’m not game to try the traditional alcoholic beverage after witnessing the women chewing yuca roots and spitting into a bowl. An enzyme in the saliva turns the starch into sugars, and it begins the fermentation process.
