The Death Date

chapter twenty-nine

A/N: Hey everyone! First of all, thanks so much for keeping with this story. It means so much! I will be posting two chapters today, so make sure you read both 29 & 30 :) Enjoy!

xxx

Eight times. Over the last four days I had found myself in front of Melanie's door eight times. Twice I had even fisted my hand to knock, almost finding the courage to ask her if Warner was there, because over the last four days, my mind was trapped in the events in the alleyway. There was no escape from the memory. None at all. In fact, each day it seemed to cement further.

I hadn't seen him at The Morning Grind, and he hadn't stopped by the vet. Each time either door opened, I peered to see if it was him, and each time I felt more guilty. Guilty for so many things. I had been the one to kiss him first. I had been the one to run away. And I was the one with a boyfriend, who hadn't seemed to cross my mind other than the times I was experiencing this shame.

I couldn't take it anymore. I had to see Warner. I needed to tell him how I felt, or I needed to tell him I couldn't see him anymore. What I wanted depended on the hour; I was a swinging pendulum, and I figured the right answer would spew from my mouth the second I saw him.

Knocking on Melanie's door, she opened it almost immediately.

"Oh, Delia," she said warmly. "I'm so sorry, I'm just about to step out for a bit."

Nerves crept up my throat. "That's okay, Melanie. I was just wondering... Um, have you – is Warn – George around?"

The door eased open further, exposing a vacant apartment. My spirits sank when I saw the empty couch.

"I'm so sorry, dear. He's not here. Work's been busy, I guess. They've got him there all hours of the day." She nabbed her purse from the coat hanger. "Would you like to walk me to my car?"

Slowly, the two of us sauntered towards the parking lot.

"George doesn't talk much about his personal life, dear, but a grandma knows things."

The sun shone bright overhead. I cupped a hand around my brow line to ease my squinting. "What do you mean?"

"You've done a number on him."

My feet stopped working. "What?"

Melanie continued shuffling and said, "You know what I mean, dear."

Scurrying ahead, I caught up with her. "Melanie," I said, just as we reached her car. "I think – I'm not sure what to do."

Fixing her crystal orbs on me, she perched a trembling hand on my shoulder. "Dear, you know what to do. Just listen. That's all there is to it."

"But what if I keep hearing different things?"

"Listen, Delia. Listen," she repeated, and after opening her door, added, "Oh, are you going to the Christmas Ball?"

"What? Oh, um, yeah," I said, having completely forgotten that Nick had asked me a few weeks ago before everything – my dad, the alleyway, my feelings for Warner – had occurred. I had agreed to go because, back then, it was the easy thing to do. But at this reminder, dread filled my system. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to be with Nick; however, before I could express this to Melanie and tell her I had decided not to go, she said:

"Good. George will be there." She began climbing into her car. "Now, I'm off. I've got a check-up and my doctor is a real stickler about time."

Another thing I had completely forgotten: Melanie's death date slapped me across the face. She only had two weeks left. How could I have let this slip? How could I have not been counting down the days? Suddenly feeling very distraught, I said, "Melanie, thank you."

"For what, dear?"

"For everything. You've... you've been so kind to me over the last few months."

Melanie waved a hand, dismissing my statement, and started the ignition. "It's you who's been a joy to have around, dear. You've made me feel young again in my own way. Couldn't have asked for more." She slammed the door shut and offered a smile before backing from the parking spot and driving away to her doctor's appointment.

xxx

The phone rang. Pressing the receiver against my ear, I said, "Hello."

"Delia, hi. It's me."

A brief pause filled the line. I hadn't heard from my father since our last phone call in which he had asked me if I would meet with him. I had contemplated his offer, but ultimately decided against seeing him. Not yet. He needed to prove to me he was going to stay in contact before I agreed to get that personal with him. Baby steps. For the indefinite future, the ball was in his court.

"Hi," I said.

"How - how are you?"

"Good," I lied. "Fine."

"Good, that's good." He choked over a few words before adding, "It's nice to hear your voice, Delia."

"Yeah," I said, my guard up.

"So, how's your mom been?"

"Pretty good, actually." This was the truth. She had been sticking to her medication and seeing her psychiatrist weekly. Her mood had never been more stable, and it was hard not to feel guilty that she could have been doing this well years ago. I had to remind myself that it wasn't my fault. The past was the past and what mattered was happening right now.

"Good. Glad to hear that. It sounds like that hospital was able to really help her."

"Yeah," I agreed, suddenly feeling thankful. "Listen, I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" he asked. "For what?"

"For getting Mom help." I scratched my forehead. "I couldn't - I wouldn't have known what to do if it hadn't been for you. I didn't know how to get her the help she needed."

"Oh, Delia," he said. "No, honey, don't thank me. Your mom is not your responsibility, alright? She wasn't yours to take care of." He sighed. "All of that was my fault. I'm the reason things got so bad. If only I'd checked in. You'll never know how much I regret..." He coughed. "I could have helped much sooner."

Heat pricked at my eyes. "Yeah."

"Are you sure you're doing okay?"

"I'm fine, Dad," I said, instantly drawing a hand up to my mouth as if to retract the word.

A very pregnant pause filled the line. "Good. Good. Um, well, I just wanted to check in with you, say hi. Is it alright if I call next week?"

"Sure," I said.

"Okay, well, talk to you soon, Delia."

"Bye."

"Bye," he said, and the phone clicked.

Flinging myself onto the couch, I covered my face with splayed fingers. I was happy my dad had called, I really was, but I knew the feeling would subside as it had been doing in recent days. Happiness, I found, was either a figment of my imagination or something that came on strong and left just as strongly, a cannonball hitting a trampoline. The impact was intense, but it was jolted right back from where it came.

Melanie had told me to listen, and I tried. But my death date circled round and round, only to come back again when the happiness had just landed, chasing it away.

I knew two things: the Christmas Ball was tomorrow, and Warner was going to be there. And when I saw him, I promised myself I would listen.