The nurse presses her lips together, summons her humanity, and nods. I duck past her and tiptoe into my dad’s room.
Inside it’s dark and it smells like sickness. I’ve been around hospitals enough to recognize that sour scent not even antiseptic can cut. My dad is a shrunken shell of a man. Small and frail sleeping in his bed. I creep to his side and take a seat. The only sound is the soft wheeze of my dad’s breathing.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was supposed to be getting better. Adam kept this a secret—but why?
You always sensed he was untrustworthy. I thought my instincts were broken. Turns out they were right all along.
If Rachel hadn’t called me, I would’ve missed this. Which means...I don’t know what it means.
“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I whisper. My dad’s eyes remain closed, his mouth slightly open. A sound creaks in his throat, but it’s probably involuntary. He’s probably just asleep. His index finger twitches on the coverlet.
I bow my head and take hold of his hand. It’s all I can do.
Thirty-Two
20 years ago
Daphne
“Daphne!” My mother’s voice finds me in my hiding place. “Come out from there.”
I hold my breath and hug the ground in case she doesn’t know I’m actually in the garden.
“I see you behind the forsythia. Come, sweetheart, come help me dig.”
I crawl out from under the hedge and run to my mother. She sees the mud and grass stains on my knees, but doesn’t scold. She’s in an old pair of jeans with matching stain, and her beautiful hands are covered in black dirt.
“What are we planting?” I ask after my own hands are coated in loam.
“Roses.”
“More roses?” Every other plant in this garden is a type of rose. Clipped into hedges, climbing up trellises, or blossoming in pots Mom can move in and out of our house.
Mom laughs. “Always.”
“Now we plant.” Mom takes a wet paper bag full of green sticks and starts setting them in the earth.
I wrinkle my nose and pick at a shriveled brown leaf. “They look dead.”
“They’re not dead. They’re dormant. Waiting to be planted.”
My dad walks by the open window, the phone pressed to his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but even if I could, I wouldn’t understand it. He stands looking out at the garden, but he doesn’t seem to really see it. Doesn’t see us.
Mom and I plant another five sticks before he hangs up. For a few blissful moments, the only sound is a low buzzing of bees moving from blossom to blossom.
“Piers, come plant with us,” my mom waves. My dad holds up a finger, and goes back to typing in another number to call.
I sit back on my haunches. “He’s always talking to someone.”
“He works hard. That’s his job, to take care of us.”
Dad starts talking again, leaving a message. The sound of his voice triggers a memory I feel deep in my bones. I grab my aching arms. “Am I going to have to go back to the hospital?”
Mom sees me shrinking into myself, and gives me a hug that leaves dirt prints on my shirt. She smells so sweet, like roses. “No, sweetie. No more hospitals. At least, not for a while.”
“How are my two girls?” Dad’s shadow falls over me. My mother turns and the sun falls full on her face. Green eyes, black hair and brows, brown skin - she’s so beautiful, my mother. My skin is more olive, a compromise between the natural tan of my mother’s heritage and my dad’s pallor, but otherwise people say I look like her.
“We’re planting roses.”
“More roses?” Dad teases. And I smile, because that’s exactly what I said. But in the next moment he frowns. “Daphne, you’re watching out for your momma, right? Make sure she’s not growing too tired—”
“That’s not her job,” Mom’s voice is soft, but she rarely cuts people off. Dad stills like she snapped at him.
I pat his leg. “It’s okay, Dad. I am watching her. I don’t want to go back to the hospital.”
Mom and Dad share a long look over my head. It ends when Dad bows his. I don’t quite know what their fight is about, but I know Mom won.
“Good girl,” Dad says to me. His voice is thick with emotion I don’t understand. He drops a kiss on my head and lowers himself down to the lawn with us. “Now, how do I plant these sticks?”
Thirty-Three
Present day
Daphne
I don’t know how long I sit beside my sleeping father.
He looks bad. Shocking. When did his skin become so translucent? How did I miss this? It’s only been a few weeks. He was so much stronger the last time I was here. Now, he looks like he’s— Like he’s—
I want to reach out and grab his hand but he looks too weak to touch. Like he’s made of dust and if I touch him he’ll disintegrate.
The nurse comes in and out a few times. Checks my dad’s vitals and shows me how to swab his lips to keep them wet. Her stance has softened towards me. Who knows what lies Adam told her about me? Which makes me wonder: what other lies has he told? There is a common denominator in a lot of the bad things that have happened: Adam Archer. But I can’t think about that right now.
“Daphne?” my dad’s wan voice comes out as the barest whisper through cracked lips. His eyes are open only the barest of slits.
“Dad,” I lean in to touch his cheek. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It feels dry and delicate like filo pastry dough. “I’m here, Dad. It’s going to be okay.”
“You look...like your mother. I thought you were her.”
Crap, now I’m crying. “I was thinking of her just now.” I brush my sleeve over my eyes and grab the cup of water. “Hey, can you drink a little bit for me?”
Everything else feels so silly and unimportant now. All the drama. All the hurt and grudges. In this moment, all I want is to go back and spend time with my dad. I wasted so much time. We both did.
“Try…” he whispers. I set the straw between his lips and coax him to take some sips. He doesn’t take much. That’s when I know: we’re counting the hours, not the days, now. Shit.
Fat tears roll down my cheeks. “I didn’t know you were this bad. I would’ve been here. Dad.”
“Busy...girl.” His eyes are open a little wider now and they are shining, a small smile curving his lips up.
“Yeah.” My laugh is pathetic. “It certainly has been a couple of days.” I filter through all that’s happened, trying to figure out what I can tell him. Hey, dad, I ended up in the tabloids again—this time with my clothes off! And I’ve lost the love of my life and my job all in one scandal. Oh, and I think Adam Archer orchestrated it all so he can steal our company.
“Um, Dad? I have to tell you… I’m not engaged.” I stare at his liver-spotted finger entwined with mine. “I told Adam I didn’t want to marry him.” There, that’s nice and simple, and without any lurid details. And I managed not to call Adam a douche canoe.