Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Fortunately the in-home nurse my parents hire turns out to be the daughter of Lita’s close friend. Jean is older—with grown children—and though she only speaks French and some very patchy English, she and I get on well. She’s quiet, which is fine because Lita talks enough for everyone. Besides that, Jean is extremely helpful, and I feel better knowing that when I eventually leave, Lita will be in good hands.
I know the three of us will settle into a steady rhythm once my parents depart. By Saturday morning, I’m more than ready to shove them out the door so they can catch their flight back to California. In Lita’s house, I feel their presence like a dark looming cloud. Dinners have been tense. Conversations are directed and carried on by Lita. My parents are still holding me at arm’s length, and I don’t know how much more of their disdain I can withstand. My mom hates my tattoo. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I catch her frowning down at it every now and then. My dad grows more anxious every day he’s away from the office.
It’s still dark outside as I stand in the foyer, relieved when a car rolls to a stop on the gravel drive. An older man gets out and pops the trunk, ready to load my parents’ luggage. I hear my dad coming down the stairs, his heavy footfalls a dead giveaway.
“I’m glad you’re awake.”
Surprisingly, it sounds like he means it. I turn away from the window and watch him set his bags down at the base of the stairs.
I don’t have the courage to meet his eyes. “Where’s Mom?”
“Finishing packing. She’ll be down in a second.”
He’s shaved his beard and dressed in a nice pair of jeans and a button-down. He looks more refreshed than I’ve seen him in days.
I go to get his suitcase, wanting to help, but he puts his hand out to stop me.
“Hang on a sec.”
I look up at him and hold my breath, worried where this will go. This is the last interaction I’ll have to endure with him, and then I’ll have some peace before I have to go back to California.
He props his hands on his hips and frowns like something is troubling him. “I’m so angry with you, Isabel. I’ve barely been able to stand it.”
My heart sinks. “Because of Lita?”
I feel like I’m already atoning for that. Surely he’s not going to berate me for it all over again.
“No,” he says harshly. “For the lies. For the fact that you didn’t feel like you could come to me and tell me the truth. Not just about this summer.” He shakes his head, his face awash with anguish. “If you’ve been unhappy…” His voice breaks and he looks away, steeling himself. “I can’t understand it. How could you possibly believe I’d want you to suffer after everything you’ve been through with your sister?”
My nose burns and I shake my head, trying to deny it. I don’t want to hurt him.
“It’s not that bad. I let it build up, but I know that after August I’ll be fine. It’s not that I’m unhappy—”
“Enough!”
His sudden command shakes me to my core. My dad never raises his voice. He’s level-headed and calm most of the time. Or he was before. In France, we’ve all been under a lot of stress.
When he speaks, he’s managed to regain some patience. “I spoke with Lita last night and she told me everything. I know you don’t like your work at De Vere, know you’ve stayed in California with us out of a sense of obligation.”
My bottom lip trembles. “I’m your only daughter, the only person left—”
“Yes, exactly,” he says emphatically. Then he squeezes his eyes closed for a moment like he’s in physical pain. “Don’t you see, Isabel? You’re all I have left. You’re my only daughter and I want you to be happy. It’s so simple. Wherever that is. Whatever it looks like.”
“And what about you and Mom?”
The question makes him take a step back and frown. “Me and Mom?” He shakes his head emphatically. “We’re not your responsibility.”
The revelation surprises me, and maybe my dad notices, because he repeats it, ensuring it sticks.
“We have our own lives outside of you, Isabel.” He chuckles when my brows lift. “Mom has started writing a book. Did you know? A mystery novel. She’s joined a group of aspiring authors who meet at a coffee shop every Monday morning to plot together, and I’m right where I want to be. De Vere is my life, not yours. I’m not sure how I failed to convey that.”
“I thought you wanted me there,” I say weakly.
“If you wanted to be there, of course. Otherwise, I don’t want to see you.” His face turns solemn. Then he continues, “Having to go into work every day, knowing you’re there only because you feel you have to be, knowing you’re going through life making yourself miserable only to make other people happy… I can’t stand the thought of it.”