“I’m not saying that. I know she’s special.”
My dad’s voice came out in a low, menacing growl I’d never heard from him before. Dad was always the soft-spoken, reasonable one in our family, hardly getting angry. Hearing that tone coming from him made my skin erupt with goosebumps. “Then maybe you should start treating her like it instead of constantly acting like you’re ashamed of her for being different.”
My chest suddenly felt uncomfortably tight, like someone had reached inside and was squeezing and twisting, stretching my organs like they were made of Silly Putty. What he was saying was the very thing I’d been feeling for as long as I could remember, and hearing my parents fight about it was like being sucker-punched in the gut.
“I’m not ashamed of her!” my mom exclaimed. “I could never be ashamed of her. I love her to death. I just wish . . . I don’t know. Doesn’t she want to make friends? She has to be lonely.”
When my father spoke again a few seconds later, his voice was calmer. “She’ll find her people, Coll, you have to trust that. You have to let her be her own person, and in the meantime, I’m done standing idly by while you do and say things to make her get down on herself.”
“Jon, I’m not—”
“No. I don’t want to hear anything but that you get me. Willow is Willow and you’ll take her as she comes. Am I clear?”
My mom hesitated for a beat and I could picture the scrunched look she got on her face whenever she and Dad entered into one of their rare but ridiculous standoffs. That hardly ever happened, but when it did, it was over the silliest things and always ended with Dad tickling Mom until she started giggling like crazy. Then all was better.
My parents had been crazy in love for as long as I could remember, and after that late-night conversation years ago, my mom had turned a corner. She’d done exactly as my dad told her and accepted me for me. From that moment on, our relationship blossomed. I’d always been so grateful to him for doing that for me.
When she’d lost her battle with breast cancer six years earlier, we’d all been crushed, but my father had been devastated. I’d stuck by his side through it all, doing everything I could to be the rock for him, the shoulder he could always lean on, but trying to help someone past losing the love of their life was practically impossible. Still, I’d done my best, and it had only cemented our relationship that much more, bringing us even closer together. If that was possible.
The fact that the man who’d carried me on his shoulders when I was a little girl as he ran through the sprinklers during the summers didn’t even remember who I was some of the time broke my heart and hurt in a way I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I found Dad in his bedroom, yanking open drawers frantically. “Colleen—” he started to yell but stopped when he spun around and spotted me in the doorway. “There you are. I’ve been yelling and yelling. We’ve been robbed, Colleen. But it’s the weirdest thing. They only took your stuff. But they took all of it. Your clothes, your jewelry. It’s all gone. All of it!”
“No. Dad, it’s me. Willow. Your daughter.”
His frenzied gaze darted around the room and the panic and confusion on his face tore at my insides. My heart was breaking in half as I stood, waiting for him to recognize me.
I took a step closer, crossing the threshold hesitantly as I worked to keep the tears at bay. “Daddy?”
I could see the shift coming over his face. He blinked and it was like a fog had cleared and the present came back into focus for him. “Willow?”
I gave him a small smile and closed the rest of the distance between us. “Yeah, Dad. It’s me. You okay?”
“I don’t . . .” He shook his head like he was trying to clear the cobwebs left behind from his most recent episode before his eyes went wide. “Oh hell. I was going to cook dinner—”
“It’s okay. I took care of it. The stove’s turned off but, unfortunately, whatever you’d put in that pot was beyond saving.”
The grin he gave me was full of sadness. He hated losing time just as much as I hated it on his behalf. “Probably for the best. I never really was any good in the kitchen, was I? That was your mom’s domain.”
“Very true. But that’s why I’m here. Lucky for you, Mom taught me all she knew. Come on, you can keep me company while I make dinner. Sound good?”
“My precious Willow girl. Always taking care of me,” Dad murmured lovingly as he hooked his arm around my shoulders and led us out of the room.
“Always, Daddy. Never ever doubt that.”
I closed my eyes for a brief second as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my temple, the familiar scent of the same aftershave he’d used for as long as I could remember filling my senses and coating me in a nice, warm bubble of familiarity.
It was moments like this, when he was lucid, when he was his usual affectionate self, that I held tightly to, knowing it was only a matter of time before these moments were fewer and farther between. They’d eventually be gone for good. As it was, they were coming faster than they had just a few weeks ago, and I didn’t want to think about what that meant.
I managed to push down the melancholy and sadness as I prepared dinner. We ate and talked and laughed like it was any other day, and afterward, not ready to leave him just yet, I hung with him so we could watch mindless TV together.
It was only when he started to doze off in his recliner that I decided it was time to leave. I got him up to his room, making sure he took all his pills before he climbed into bed. I made sure everything was turned off and locked his house up tight before heading for my own home only a block away.
It wasn’t until I got inside and locked the door behind me that I gave in to the tears that had been pricking at the backs of my eyes all evening and cried for the father who wasn’t gone yet, but who I was losing faster than I was ready for.
Chapter Five
Willow
By the time I reached Elite Security the following morning my clothes were sticking to me in the most uncomfortable places. My face was glowing bright, so damn red it felt hot to the touch, and I was wheezing so badly I sounded like an eighty-year-old, life-long smoker desperately trying to get oxygen into her lungs.
In my infinite wisdom, I’d decided it would be smart to save my money by walking to work instead of calling for an Uber, knowing that whatever was wrong with my car would more than likely be a significant hit to my bank account.
Every little bit counted, and I figured a few miles wouldn’t kill me.
I’d been very wrong.
Thanks to the genes on my mom’s side of the family, I’d come by my lithe frame naturally. Which had been a blessing since I hated all things exercise.
The first half-mile of my walk to work hadn’t been so bad. Sure, the heat had made sweat pebble across my hairline, but that was no big deal since I wore my hair in a low ponytail most days anyway.
It was after the one-mile mark that things started to go downhill fast. That thin sheen of sweat had turned into a torrent that felt like it was coming out of every single pore. And it only got worse the farther I went. It ran down the back of my neck like an open spigot, traveling down my spine to my butt crack. I was sweating in places I didn’t know could even sweat. I mean, who sweats in the bends of their elbows? And I didn’t know you could develop a stitch in your side simply by walking at a leisurely pace. I thought that only happened to runners.