I’ve missed her.
Jesus, has it only been three days? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Ollie,” she says with so much reverence that my knees buckle and I sink to the grass.
With her hands on my cheeks, she pulls my head back so she can look at me with those beautiful green eyes I want to get lost in. “Hi to you too.”
She giggles. “I missed you.”
“I was just thinking the same thing. How are you? How’s your dad?”
Her lips downturn. “He’s weakening by the day. Yesterday, he had some energy, but today, he hasn’t gotten out of bed.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“It’s okay. I know it’s coming, but I’m just glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
And I know that this is exactly where I need to be. Maren leans in, pressing her lips to mine.
“Really, Maren? Do you think we don’t have neighbors?” Linda’s chiding voice comes from the door.
“Sorry, Linda, I missed my wife.”
“You didn’t go running and leaping out the door.”
Maren rolls her eyes. “We’ll be right in, Linda.”
The door closes, and I grin at her. “Looks like we’re in trouble.”
“Not you. I’m pretty sure she thinks you walk on water. It’s just me who is the hellion.”
“Has she been bad?”
Maren climbs off me and gets to her feet. “Bad? No. Normal is the better word. I’m the horrible child who didn’t come until it was pointed out. I don’t have great manners. I don’t know my father’s needs like she does. Blah, blah, blah. It’s fine. Once Daddy is gone, I am rid of her.”
I kiss her forehead. “Always a bright side.”
“My bright side is that you’re here and you can tame the shrew.”
“For you, I’ll try.”
Twenty-Five
MAREN
I should not be this excited about him being here, but I am. I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl who just had her first date. Butterflies are swarming in my belly each time I look at him, which is crazy, but it’s how I feel.
Daddy woke for a few minutes when Oliver came in. He smiled, gripped his hand, and then fell back asleep. Oliver agreed to stay in the room while I started dinner before Aunt Eileen got here for the night shift.
“What are you making?” Linda asks as she enters.
“Roast beef, potatoes, and corn.”
All three of my father’s favorites.
She scoffs. “He can’t eat this.”
“I know that.”
“He’s dying, Maren. He can’t eat steak.”
I bite back the sarcastic response that wants to come out and focus on cutting the potatoes. I’m well aware he can’t eat it. I know that he’s dying, and her pointing it out every fucking minute of the day is wearing me down. My heart is breaking into a million pieces because I can’t help him. There’s no amount of planning that will change the outcome, and I don’t really know how to live with that.
So instead, I’m cooking his favorite dish, hoping that just maybe the smell of it will make him feel comfort.
“He can’t, but we can, and it makes me feel a little bit of peace.”
Linda pours herself some coffee. “I’m not trying to be cruel.”
It just comes so naturally.
I put the knife down—no one needs me to kill her if she says something stupid—and take this opening as a chance to make her understand that I love my father.
“I don’t believe that’s your intention. I don’t think you purposely set out to make me feel bad, but sometimes, it’s the outcome regardless. There is nothing in the world I want more than for him to get better. My father is all I have left, and I’m trying to do whatever I can, but it’s as though nothing I do is ever good enough.”
She places the mug down. “He loves you more than you will ever know, and there were so many nights he would tell me how he wished you’d come.”
“I came when I could.” Or when you allowed it is more accurate.
“I was here always,” she says.
Yes, because she is his wife and because they moved here. The fact that it was her choice to move them from Virginia to Georgia, which is the whole reason I can’t be here as often as either of us wish I were, isn’t something she will ever admit. She refuses to admit fault in herself. No, she just plays the victim in the tragedy she created.
“Do you think that makes his love for you different?”
Linda scoffs. “I know he loves me. More than he will ever love anyone else. Our love was for the ages.”
“Then why would you not embrace me? Love me the way he did? I had no mother. I had only him, and I wanted so badly for you to fill that role for me.”
“I can’t have children. Did you know that?” I shake my head. “I wanted them more than anything. Your father didn’t want another kid, but I thought he might change his mind after we got married. Then he got sick.” I’m not sure what this has to do with me, but I stay quiet because she’s never said anything like this to me before. “All I wanted was for you to be my daughter, but you couldn’t be. Your father reminded me often that you were Abigail’s. You looked like her too, the spitting image. But your father didn’t want me to be your mother. He wanted me to be something else, something he couldn’t name. So, I stood back, trying to see what my role was. When he got sick, it was clear you hated me, as did the rest of your family. So, yes, I push you away because everyone vilifies me, never understanding what I gave up for your father. The trips I didn’t take, kids I never had, jobs I couldn’t keep because of your father’s health.”
Leaning against the counter, I let the words settle around us.
After a few seconds, I say, “I am truly sorry for the things you had to give up to care for him. It couldn’t have been easy. When you decided to move here, it broke my heart because I knew I couldn’t be there for him—or you—the way you’d want. Daddy knew that travel was difficult when I was with the agency, which is why I left. I came when I could, but I wasn’t really welcome to just pop in.”
“He would never complain to you. He is so proud of you, and all he wants is for you to be happy. I was the one who was made to suffer.”
“You could’ve asked for help.”
She shakes her head. “No, I couldn’t. Patrick is my husband, and it is my job to be there for him.”
So, she refused to ask for help but then gets upset that she didn’t have it? It makes no sense. She can’t blame everyone else for the problem she created.
There’s a throat clearing, and we both turn to see Oliver standing there. “I’m sorry, but Patrick woke up and he’s asking for you, Linda.”
The only sound is the mug hitting the counter before she’s gone. Oliver makes his way over to me. “Are you okay?”
“Years of pent-up bullshit won’t be solved in one conversation, but maybe I have a small amount of understanding into her psychosis now.”
“I know it’s not easy.”