My phone buzzes. She’s sent me a text.
Rachel: Daphne, I’m sorry. I can explain.
There’s little dots that tell me she’s still typing, but I furiously type faster.
Me: You have a lot of nerve, texting me rn.
The ellipses disappear.
Me: Adam told me what you did.
And now I just feel tired.
Me: Why? What did I do to you? I thought we were friends?
Rachel: …
Me: Don’t bother explaining. I’m blocking this number.
Rachel: Wait! It’s about your dad—
I snatch up the phone and redial her. My face is wet.
“What about my dad?” I ask before she can greet me. I want no niceties from her. I steel myself for more lies.
“Oh, thank gods. Daphne, he’s really, really sick.”
“What?” The last time I talked to him… was a while ago. He sounded weak but I thought everything was fine.
“You have to go. Now. The truth is, he’s in hospice care.”
“Hospice?” I cry, scrambling to my feet. “But that’s… That’s end-of-life care. Are you just trying to fuck with me again? Why are you calling, telling me this and not his nurse?” After all that you’ve done!
“I’m not proud of the way things turned out. Look, I can explain,” her voice drops to a whisper. “Just...not now. There’s no time. Go, Daphne. If you go now, you might make it in time.”
My heart jumps to my throat.
I’m already out the door, flying down the stairs. “Taxi!” I shout. A yellow Chariot wrenches out of traffic to glide to the curb.
“Make it in time for what?” I ask Rachel, but she’s quiet as I tumble into the cab’s backseat and give directions to the driver. When I look down at my phone, she’s hung up, but a new text has come through.
Rachel: In time to say goodbye.
Ten minutes later, I’m in a show down with the stone-faced nurse blocking the entrance to my dad’s room.
“He’s sleeping,” she whispers harshly.
“It’s the middle of the day. How long has he been out?”
The nurse’s gaze flits away. I clench my fist so I don’t grab the front of her shirt and shake her until she tells me what the hell is going on.
Instead, I steel my voice. “How long?”
“This is against protocol,” the nurse says to the wall. She’s scared of something and I don’t understand. “Your father is very ill.”
“How ill?” I force myself to sound calm. “Another stroke?”
The nurse finally meets my gaze a second before dropping hers and nibbling on her lip. “Yes. Followed by acute encephalopathy.”
The scientist part of my brain scrambles to translate. My voice hitches as I ask, “How bad is it?”
“We started hospice procedures two days ago.”
“What?” I whisper-shout. Rachel was right. The realization blasts the hairs on my arm, makes them rise. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
“We had our orders.”
“What orders? From who?” my voice jumps an octave and I take a breath trying to calm myself down. “I hired you. I’m his daughter.”
The nurse gives a little whimper, and I realize I’ve backed her into the wall. “Your fiancé,” she says desperately. “He told us you had a breakdown and were hospitalized—”
“What?” I screech. No wonder she’s looking at me like I’m an escapee from the asylum.
“We were supposed to allow you to talk to your dad but all serious communication should go to Mr. Archer.”
Adam fucking Archer. Again. Something’s rotten in New Olympus and all roads lead to my bleached blond tabloid co-star. But I don’t have time to figure this out. Hospice care means I don’t have much time left with my dad.
“I’m going in. You can’t stop me from seeing my father.” Not if he’s on his deathbed. Holy shit, how is this happening? This can’t be happening.
“I have to phone this in,” the nurse mumbles.
I grab her arm and she flinches. She thinks I’m crazy. With a deep breath, I relax my grip. “Please. I’m not asking you to break protocol, just...wait as long as you can. This is my last chance…” To say goodbye.
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.”