Page 5 of Whispers in the Dark
Dread builds in my stomach, but I throw on a faux smile and take it. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s nothing important.”
Her eyes show sympathy as I step away, making my way down the hall and stopping before my father’s room. Knocking softly,I push the door open, finding him in his favorite chair. His hair is almost entirely white, while little wrinkles crinkle around his eyes, reminding me every day how much time we have left with each other.
Or, I suppose, how little…
His deep brown eyes peek up from his book, a broad smile taking over his handsome face.
And the debt I added to my credit card this month for the gifts in my hand, suddenly, doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
“Alina.” He places his book on the side table beside him. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” I lift the bag in the air. “Besides, I thought we could open presents early.”
He stands and walks over to me, wrapping his arms around me. As my arms slip around him, I immediately notice how he feels frailer than the last time I saw him a week ago.
“It’s always so good to see my little girl.”
I fight back the tears that wish to blur my vision and clear my throat from the burn currently growing. “It’s always good to see you.”
We part, and he sits on the couch, moving blankets out of the way so I can sit on the other side. Placing my bags and the envelope on the coffee table before us, I lean against the cushions, letting out a deep breath.
A crease builds in his forehead as his brows furrow. He looks around the room, scratching the back of his head. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry this isn’t a normal Christmas. I know you’d much rather be spending it with the—”
“I’d rather be here.” I curl my hand over his, and the two of us hold eyes for a moment, both of us knowing the implications of this Christmas. Pulling back my hand, I lift my glasses and swipe a finger under my eyes, hoping he doesn’t notice the tears. “Should we order Chinese? WatchIt’s a Wonderful Life? Andeat as many Christmas cookies as we can before we feel ready to puke?”
He laughs, wiping at his eyes too. “That sounds like the best kind of Christmas to me.” A moment later, I reach for my phone and dial the local Chinese restaurant. After I end the call, I set my phone down, and a comfortable silence lingers between us before he asks, “How’s the teaching job going?”
I swallow hard. “It’s going…really well. The kids are all great.”
He grins and reaches for a cookie. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
Guilt bubbles within me.
I never lie to him.
But it’s a good lie.
The kind that will keep him calm.
That won’t upset him, throwing him into an emotional tailspin.
Because the last thing I want is for him to worry about me.
“Your mother would be, too,” he adds, sending a crashing flood of unease across the center of my chest. As if on autopilot, my eyes sweep over to the picture of my mother and father that resides front and center on his bookcase. The two of them are standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower, her copper, fiery strands of hair flying around her as they share a kiss beneath the starry night sky, appearing lost in each other.
She’s not a topic we broach often. Purely because I see the pain in his eyes whenever I mention her, and I refuse to be a source of his discomfort. But I can’t help myself when I say, “Dad, did Mom, well, I mean, when she died, do you know if she happened to leave a—”
“I’d rather not talk about her tonight, sweetheart.” His features contort, appearing distraught. “I don’t think…” He clears his throat. “I don’t think I could handle it right now.”
“Of course.” I nod in understanding, turning my attention toward the TV, trying to suppress the need to know the answer to my question.
Don’t make things worse for him, I scold myself.
An hour into the movie, after our bellies are full of food, I glance to my side and see my father sound asleep with his feet propped up on the footstool. I move closer to him and tug the blanket up around his chest.
As I lean back, the letter Andrea handed me earlier stares at me from the coffee table. Its presence is an instant mood killer on this festive night.
I sigh as I reach for it. “Let’s get this over with.” My fingers slip beneath the seal flap and pinch the folded piece of paper, pulling it out and unfolding it.
