Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“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.”
“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.