Twenty years. It had been twenty years since she had seen his face, been in the same room with him, watched his face carefully for signs of danger. Yes, there had been a few phone conversations, most memorably the one where he demanded to know what made her think pursuing a doctorate was a reasonable goal for her, when she should know well that it took real intelligence, like her mother’s, to do a thing like that. There hadn’t been many phone calls after that.
But now her cousin – another person she hadn’t seen in twenty years – claimed that the old man was dying, and wouldn’t she come see him to say goodbye? Dying. Him. The waking nightmare who had faded into regular nighttime nightmare when her mother fled, one child tucked under each wing, across the continent. Do nightmares die?
Rapid decisions made and tickets bought, she and her sister boarded a plane to cross the continent again. While her sister chattered about wanting to drive by their old house and definitely wanting to see if that one restaurant was still there, she looked out the window to watch the miles of safety – her safety – stream away far below.
And then they were there. The car was rented, directions obtained, unfamiliar roads navigated. She pulled up. She turned off the car. She hugged her little sister. She walked in first.
“Hey, Dad.”
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