Page 3 of The Knight (Endgame 2)
“That’s okay.” I force a smile. “I’ll just sit with him.”
The truth is that he hasn’t woken up in the three days since his heart attack. Not when I’ve been visiting him. I’m ashamed that it’s been a relief. At least asleep, I know he’s resting, peaceful in the knowledge that our house still belongs to me. The knowledge that his daughter hasn’t auctioned her virginity. What will I tell him once he’s fully conscious?
How will I explain this?
The room is dimly lit by sconces, yellow light making wood-paneled walls glow. The bed is larger than a regular hospital bed, with heavy-duty plastic rails. An antique-styled cabinet hides most of the equipment that beeps and whirs, keeping my father comfortable.
“Hi, Daddy.”
He looks infinitely old against the white sheets, the skin of his hand paper-thin, inlaid with purple veins. The scars left from his attack stand out in bright relief. The sight sends a shiver through me. The enemies who attacked him are still out there. The man sneaking around the yard when we were alone in the house, too.
Some days I feel paranoid, as if our fall from grace changed me, made me a darker person. But when I look at my father, frail and broken, I know my fear is justified. Someone out there wanted him hurt. Maybe dead. Will they try again?
Not while he’s here. The security at this place is as good as the food and the accommodations. The very best. The book I left here still sits on the nightstand. Dangerous Women throughout History. A textbook too old and worn to have much resale value. That was my excuse for keeping it, anyway. Or maybe I needed this reminder that women had been powerful despite systems designed to stop them, that we aren’t always pawns in the games of men.
I sit on the edge of the bed and read aloud.
“‘The face that launched a thousand ships has inspired just as many stories of what exactly happened between Helen and Paris, and how it drove Troy to war. Was it her beauty that drove men to madness? Was she a figurehead for a war rooted in economic disparity? Or is there more to her story, something beneath the surface?’”
I don’t know whether he can hear me, but it’s worth it to try.
And reading about Helen of Troy always brings me closer to my mother. My father used to call her that and the name fits. A beautiful woman, wife of a king. She didn’t start a war—at least not that I know of. But she’s the mysterious figure in my past, an enigma I can only puzzle together from stories my father told me, the same way that Helen must be sketched from countless interpretations and mentions in historical canon.
“‘Helen’s position in history poses deeper questions. How does she represent the ideal of beauty? And to what degree does female agency direct the course of history?’”
A murmur comes from the bed, and I glance up. Daddy’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a crease between his brows. I touch his hand and find it freezing. Squeezing gently, I put my other hand on his forehead.
“Daddy?”
No answer.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You’re probably bored. I can just imagine you smiling at me, telling me that I need to stop reading where it’s dark, that I’ll ruin my eyes that way.”
More indistinct sounds, an agitated mutter. His lips move briefly and then fall still. Is he trying to talk to me? Is he awake or dreaming?
“Can you hear me, Daddy? I’m right here.”
“Helen,” he says, voice rough and thin.
“That’s right,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. But I know from the tone that he hasn’t heard me. At least not with any conscious thought. He’s not awake, but filtering through some medicinal haze. And the yearning in his voice isn’t meant for a historical figure. It’s for my mother. Helen St. James.
“Ms. St. James,” a voice says from behind me, and I whirl with a gasp.
Past and present collide for one breathless second, before I can right myself. It takes a second for the world to come into focus, for me to recognize the administrator for the nursing home.
“Mr. Stewart,” I say, still emotional. “It’s good to see you.”
His expression is grave. “I’m sorry that your father’s condition isn’t better, but the doctor is optimistic about him. Despite his age and his injuries, his vitals are strong.”
I close my eyes briefly, torn between a prayer of thanks and a plea for the future. “Thank you.”
“Of course he will be at an increased risk of another heart attack, or even a stroke, with his current situation. There’s a new drug on the market, an advanced antiplatelet, that can help him. The doctor can explain more details.”
A new drug? That sounds expensive. And we don’t have insurance.
