The Death Date

chapter twelve

"Hey, you gonna tell me what's been bothering you?"

I shimmied off my apron and was standing by the side of the bar near the staff room when Meghan's voice pierced through my thoughts. Apron now slung over my forearm, I leaned against the wall, my words caught in my throat. Meghan cast her eyes out onto the shop, inhaled, and then turned towards me. My shift had just ended, and so had the morning rush. The shop would be quiet until lunch.

"So?" she prompted. "What's going on? You've been acting strange all morning."

It was the second time in the span of a few days that someone had noticed I was off. I wasn't sure whether to be nervous or flattered. Through a sigh, I drew a hand to smooth the loose strands of copper hair that had escaped my messy bun. "It's nothing. I'm just tired."

Part truth, part lie. I wondered if Meghan could tell.

She could. "We're all tired, Delia. You've been walking around like you're removed from your body."

Fidgeting with my hair some more, I shuffled in place and dipped my chin to steer my eyes away from Meghan's questioning ones.

The truth was, I wanted to tell her what was bothering me. At least, the half of myself that couldn't seem to drop the series of images of my father wanted to confide in her. Speaking about it to someone else might relieve some of the pressure building inside, which, thanks to my encounter with Warner a couple nights ago, was at an all-time high.

"It's my dad," I said quickly in a voice I didn't register as my own, hollow and cracked.

Meghan's searching eyes softened. "Okay. What about him?"

I learned further against the wall to brace myself for the impact of my next words.

"He, um, he sent me a letter." Meghan didn't respond, and I continued, "He sent me a letter telling me he wants to see me, and I'm not sure what to do about it."

Even missing years of context, context only Vi knew about it, Meghan didn't fire questions in my direction. Instead, though confusion rested in the lines of her face, she simply asked, "Where is your dad?"

"Florida, I think."

"Does he travel a lot?"

I tossed a small laugh. "No. Maybe. The last I heard he was in Florida."

"So, you haven't seen him in a while?" she asked.

"No." I wrung out my hands. "Not since I was thirteen."

The effect of my statement physically impacted Meghan. Her eyes widened as her shoulders rolled backwards.

"Have you heard from him since then?"

"Not until this letter," I said.

Meghan quickly glanced towards the empty shop, but she didn't focus on anything particular. Inhaling, she rounded back on me and said, "No wonder you're out of it."

"Yeah." The next words were out of my mouth before I had time to reel them in. "He said he wants to come and visit me next month and that he's sorry for all the time that's passed, but, I mean, obviously it's just his guilt talking. Why would he want to come and see me after seven years?"

"I don't know," Meghan said. "You could be right. Maybe it's guilt."

My body tightened. "I don't want to see him."

"Then don't. Tell him not to come."

A few seconds of silence fell between us which provided time for my thoughts to take shape.