Wounds of Time
Page 22
I smiled and then snapped myself into father mode. “Speaking of love stories, let’s see it. Let’s see the ring. Do his diamond picking abilities meet my approval?”
“I didn’t give him a chance to propose.”
I was taken back. “What? Why? Having second thoughts?” I asked.
“No. If he loves me, that ring will be there tomorrow. I wanted to give you your Christmas present.”
I looked at her like that was the most ridiculous thing that I’d ever heard come out of her mouth, well because it was. “My Christmas gift will be there tomorrow,” I said.
“I wanted you to have it today,” she replied, handing me a Christmas bag.
I took the gift from her and opened it. There in my hand, I held the bottle of wine. Our bottle of wine. I sighed.
“This was way too expensive for you to get me. It happens to be my favorite wine, though, did you know that?” I asked, looking at her in surprise.
“I figured,” she replied.
Then it hit me. She’d just watched the movie. Of all the people in all the world, my daughter—with her psychology degree—was the one person on the face of this earth who could make the connection.
I put the bottle down on the balcony ledge. I turned around and faced her, with my arms folded across my chest in a defensive position. I looked her straight in the eye.
“Say it. I can take it.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could.
She tilted her head and peeked up at me. “Say what?” she asked.
“What you’re feeling. I know you too well not to know when wheels are turning in that pretty little head of yours, so say what you’re feeling.” I was deathly afraid of what was going to come out of her mouth.
“Gratitude,” she responded, and my arms dropped. “Thank you,” she continued.
“For what?”
“For everything,” she said, before throwing her arms around me.
I lost it. I lost control right there in my daughter’s arms. I cried like a baby into her shoulder, probably getting snot all in her hair. Nothing a daughter should ever see her father do. I pulled back, wiped my face with my arm, and tried to control myself.
“I’m sorry,” I began. “Dads don’t do this; Dads don’t cry.”
She had tears in her eyes. “Humans do,” she answered.
Still trying to compose myself, I looked at the bottle of wine on the ledge. “Stay right here.”
I hurried into the kitchen. I started to look through the cabinets, searching for the fancy crystal wine glasses we used on special occasions. When I found them, they were covered in dust; I guess it had been a while since there’d been a special occasion. I rinsed them out, grabbed a bottle opener, and went back out to the porch. “You ever have this wine?” I asked her.
She shook her head, so I opened the bottle, “Well, I’m glad I can be the first man you try it with, while I’m still the most important man in your life,” I said. I poured two glasses.
She went to take a sip, but I stopped her.
“You’re supposed to smell it first,” I said. Once she’d sniffed it, I lifted my glass for a toast. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
“Merry Christmas.” She took a sip. “Wow that is good!”
“Right?” I said, smiling.
We stood there and stared at the sky, drinking our glasses of wine. Then out of nowhere, she looked at me and asked me if I wanted to dance. I shook my head. “You know I don’t dance,” I said.
“That’s not true.” She started playing a song on her phone. It was “Someday at Christmas,” by Stevie Wonder. “You danced with me to this when I was a little girl.”
I was in shock. “You were four,” I said, “How could you possibly remember that?”
“It’s one of my favorite memories of you,” she said, taking me by the hand to the middle of the balcony. She lifted her arm and put her fingers through mine. Her other hand rested lightly on my shoulder. I followed her lead, with my free hand on her waist.
“You brought me out to the middle of the living room,” she continued. “You were on your knees so I could reach you to hold onto you. You told me to take a good look at that shitty Christmas tree we had. Said that one day, I was going to have a Christmas tree so big, I didn’t know where it began and where it ended. You told me you were going to make sure that I had everything I ever wanted in life, and I would never have to worry about anything, especially a stupid Christmas tree. Halfway through the song, you picked me up, guess you were tired of dancing on your knees.”
She smiled at the memory, one that I remembered vividly. Her laying her head on my shoulder as I held her in my arms, her little feet dangling. That was so long ago. She was so tiny then. Samantha had been waitressing, and Nick sleeping. It was just her and me. And now here I was, dancing with that same little girl who had grown up to be such a beautiful young woman.
Suddenly, a memory of Sarah came back. We were lying in bed one Monday afternoon listening to Christmas songs, and this song had come on. I’d told Sarah that it reminded me of my daughter.
“Tell me about your daughter,” she’d said.
“Well,” I told her, “She’s beautiful, takes after my wife. Extremely smart and very strong. But I worry about her. She’s one of those hopeless romantics dying to fall in love, ever since she was a little girl. She has so many boys chasing her, I just hope she picks the right one.”
“Who’s the right one going to be?” Sarah had asked.
I remembered staring into her eyes when I answered. “The one who loves her at least half as much as I love you.”
“You really love me that much?” she’d asked, like she hadn’t believed me.
“I love you more than life,” I’d responded.
Casey spoke, bringing me back to the present. “You told me that would be the last time we danced until my wedding. See? You were wrong.” She’d always loved telling me when I was wrong.
As we swayed to the music, I looked at her and said, “Yeah, it turns out I’m not always right.”
We danced for the whole song, neither of us speaking again until near the very end.
“Hey, Dad?” she said.
I didn’t even look up. I was caught up in the moment, just dancing with her. “Yeah?”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I’m pretty sure I was still moving, but in that moment, the world stopped. I looked straight at her, to see her staring back at me with such empathy in her eyes. So many responses ran through my head. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” “There must be some misunderstanding,” “What loss?”
Then it occurred to me. This was it. This was the sign I had just asked for. That bottle of wine she’d handed me—that was from Sarah. A sign telling me that not only was she still with me, but that she forgave me. That love was more than just feelings. Love was sacrifice, and forgiveness.
Still staring into Casey’s eyes, I opened my mouth, and the words came out. Uncontrollably and naturally. “Thank you.”
SAMANTHA
I watched them dance from my bedroom window. Vince had always been a great dad—that went without saying. But he was right, we’d raised incredible kids. To watch his daughter dance with him like that was truly a beautiful sight. I’d watched him for twenty minutes before Casey had joined him. Watching him talk to that spot in the sky, looking so lonely and miserable. So broken. I’d contemplated going out and consoling him, but I didn’t want him to misread what had just happened on the couch. I mean, the couch thing had been nice, but it wasn’t romantic or anything.
Vince and I had shared a lifetime together. We had been through so much. Affair or not, it was hard to see him that way. On so many different occasions, I’d wanted to ask him about her. What she’d grown up to be like? What he’d loved so much about her, and if she’d loved him just as much. I wanted to believe that she did. Before she died, I’d thought about her from time to time, even trie
d to look her up once. I hadn’t known then that she’d changed her name. I couldn’t help but wonder: would our fates have ended the same way had I looked up Bianca Evans and not Sarah O’Malley? I never did ask him, though. After seeing him devastated on the kitchen floor that day, watching him sob—I couldn’t bear to put him through that again.
I looked up at the sky, toward the same spot he’d been looking earlier.
“Merry Christmas, Sarah. I wish I’d gotten to know you as well as he did.”
VINCE
Well, Samantha was right. That next morning would be the last Christmas that I’d wake up with my daughter in the same house. The three of us had breakfast together—I made pancakes. Casey’s boyfriend did ask her to marry him that night, and she accepted. Good looking guy, doctor. Provides a good life for her, and you know what? He loves her a little more than half the amount I love you, which is still pretty impressive. I can’t complain.
After breakfast, I took an Uber back to my apartment and took a shower. Shaped my beard just like you like it. Picked out the nicest black button-down that I could find, one I knew you would approve of. I even left it out. I walked over to the church and lit a candle for you. I told you I couldn’t wait to reunite with you in heaven, but I now knew it wasn’t time yet. I walked three blocks to the movie theater and bought two tickets to see The Christmas Fairy. I bought two because I knew you were with me. I liked it. It was pretty good. No, it was really good. I watch it every Christmas now. And sometimes on Thursdays. The actress doesn’t hold a candle to you, but in her defense, no one ever will.
ABOUT ATMOSPHERE PRESS
Atmosphere Press is an independent, full-service publisher for excellent books in all genres and for all audiences. Learn more about what we do at atmospherepress.com.
We encourage you to check out some of Atmosphere’s latest releases, which are available at Amazon.com and via order from your local bookstore:
Saints and Martyrs: A Novel, by Aaron Roe
When I am Ashes, a novel by Amber Rose
Melancholy Vision: A Revolution Series Novel, by L.C. Hamilton
The Recoleta Stories, by Bryon Esmond Butler
Voodoo Hideaway, a novel by Vance Cariaga
Hart Street and Main, a novel by Tabitha Sprunger
The Weed Lady, a novel by Shea R. Embry
A Book of Life, a novel by David Ellis
It Was Called a Home, a novel by Brian Nisun
Grace, a novel by Nancy Allen
Shifted, a novel by KristaLyn A. Vetovich
Because the Sky is a Thousand Soft Hurts, stories by Elizabeth Kirschner
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in New York City as a “nineties teenager”, Stevie D. Parker grew up studying journalism. When life took her in a different direction, she spent the past two decades as a Public Relations Executive, a position that involved traveling throughout the US and dealing with many different types of people. A self-proclaimed “realist” with an astute sense of people and situations. She is fun-loving, open-minded and spontaneous but believes that everything happens for a reason. Passionate about everything she does, Stevie now spends her time writing fictional stories based on real life experiences.