Until I Found You

three

~ ABBY ~

"Dad?"

My voice rang out into the open entry way. No response. I shoved my jacket into the coat closet and kicked my shoes into the corner before calling out a second time, a little bit louder than before.

"Dad? Where are you?"

"In the fireplace!" The familiar voice of my father answered back, only it was muffled, making him sound much further away than it was possible for him to be.

I made my way down the hall, making quick steps toward the small living room. Everything was in its usual place. The upholstered teal couch was up against the back wall, two wooden side tables bookending either end. The grey shag rug smushed under my feet just as it always did and the same weathered picture frames lined every inch of the wall. Then there was my father who was currently, just as he'd said, in the fireplace.

All I could see of the man who had raised me was his knees and below, the rest of him was hidden from view. I kept my fingers crossed that he was still in one piece as I made my way over to him.

"Hey Santa." I said, tapping one of his knees. "You here to bring me my presents?"

"I'm sorry, Shortcake." He replies, voice still muted by the brick in between us. "I was trying to clean the fireplace and I just got stuck in here some how."

Dad's called me shortcake for as long as I can remember, a tribute to my five foot two height and my red hair. When I was younger it was a much brighter red but as I got older it became a much darker auburn, forcing him to drop the strawberry that went in front of the original nickname.

Together, it takes us fifteen minutes to figure out how to wriggle him out of the flue chamber. When he's finally free, his face is covered in ash and soot, and his clothes are completely destroyed. Despite his assurance that he was fine, I insist on cooking dinner for us alone, giving him time to shower and clean up.

It's been getting a lot harder to stop worrying about him lately. I try to come and spend time with him as much as I can but the more I come here, the more reasons I find to worry. He's been getting himself "stuck" in a lot of places or sticky situations. The fireplace is just one example. I keep telling myself that he's not that old because really, he's not. He's just constantly pushing himself too far, taking on projects he should save for me or literally anyone else. He's so determined to do everything himself, that he doesn't seem to acknowledge that he could seriously injure himself in the process of doing it.

"Mmmm, something smells amazing in here." He says as he re-enters the kitchen twenty minutes later. I'm grateful to see him looking revitalized and much more like his usual self in a fresh set of jeans and an old flannel. His black hair has little flakes of grey in it now, but he seems to enjoy rocking the whole salt and pepper look anyway.

"I made your favorite." I tell him as I drain the pasta water into the sink.

"Carbonara?" He confirms excitedly.

"With a salad on the side and- no don't you dare give me that look, you need to eat vegetables Dad."

"Or what?" He asks incredulously.

"Or else your fingers will fall off." I deadpan, motioning to the table. "Have a seat, it's almost ready."

I make myself busy, mixing the spaghetti noodles with the eggs, cheese and parsley. Dad makes himself busy too, pushing around the lettuce on his plate in circles and asking me about how my classes are going.