“Thank you.”
Her kindness is soothing. With her around, I feel different from when the men are here. Maybe that’s done on purpose, though, like a way to control me. I’m used to people trying to manipulate me, so this wouldn’t be a new tactic I haven’t seen before. I just don’t have the strength to do anything more than what I’m doing.
Besides—even if it’s fake—her kindness is perhaps what I need now to balance the emotions colliding inside me.
“You’re welcome, dear.” She leaves, and soon as she goes through the door, the nerves come rushing back, and I freeze up again.
I have Dad’s number programmed into my head, and I’m ready to call. I’m just stuck on what to say.
It’s amazing; I can’t believe I’m the same girl who used to be the first to run into my father’s open arms when he’d come home from work every day. I can’t believe I’m the same girl who used to bawl her eyes out when he’d go traveling to Europe with his gallery. Dad used to do art shows, and while it must have been so exciting for him, I was miserable when he was away and happiest when he was with me.
It’s hard to believe I was that girl.
But I was, and I still am. Except this version of me hasn’t seen her father in eight years. And now he’s dying.
Pushing aside my worries, I dial the number.
I’m surprised when he answers on the first ring, and sounds exactly like he always did. Just like the father I loved so much. It’s like he was waiting by the phone. Waiting for my call.
“Hello,” he says again and waits a few moments like he knows it’s me.
Hearing his voice takes me back. Not to the darkness but to happier times when I lived to hear his voice.
“D… Dad, it’s me, Summer,” I manage, and I can hear him take a quick breath on the other end of the line.
“Summer, is that really you?”
The emotion in his voice grips me, and my eyes well with unshed tears.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Oh my God. I’m so glad you called.”
After the way he spoke to me last time, I’m compelled to clarify if that’s true, but I can hear it in his voice. He means it.
“Me too.”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks with a deep concern I haven’t heard in so long it sounds strange to me.
“I’m okay. I’m not hurt.” And I’m alive.
“Has… um, Eric been taking care of you?”
I’m not sure how to answer that—definitely not with the absolute truth. So, I go for the basic answer.
“Yes. He told me about you… your health.”
He’s quiet for a few moments, then he exhales. “Don’t worry about me, Summer.”
“I do, though. I wanted to talk to you about that. Of course, I want to say how sorry I am about Scarlett as well, but I wanted to see how you were.” I pause for a beat to take a measured breath. This is the moment I feared because it’s so hard. Just mentioning her name to him feels hard. “I’m sorry for what happened to her, Dad.”
“I know.”
I’m glad he knows.
“What did the doctors say about you? Is there nothing more they can do?”
“No, there’s nothing more. They did everything they could before. This is it. I have… well they said three to six months, so I guess the clock’s ticking.”