More Than We Can Tell

The drive to Edgewater takes forever. The farther I drive, the more I regret forcing Declan to stay home. He wasn’t happy about it, either. I thought I was going to have to steal his car.

But this, I need to do alone. This visit is nothing like his journey to find his father.

There is nothing positive here. Not even memories.

“What if he tries to hurt you?” Declan asked.

“I won’t let him.” This much I know. He will not touch me. My muscles are tense already.

“What if he has a gun? You can’t ninja a bullet.”

That question almost got me. But then I said, “You can’t either. I’m going.”

Somehow I find my father’s street early, and it’s not what I expected. The neighborhood is peaceful and quiet, with large single-family homes set back from the street. I don’t see any apartment buildings, and one would be very out of place on this road. I wonder if I have the wrong street. Road names are reused all over the county. But when I pull over to reset the map on my phone, it puts me right back here.

Maybe it’s a home that’s been converted to apartments?

That must be the case, because the address leads to a large yellow house with white trim. Gray stones edge the garden, surrounding huge bushes set at regular intervals. The driveway leads to a small parking lot. A handicapped ramp has been installed alongside the porch stairs.

I back into a parking place, then sit and study the building. Six other cars are parked here, though the building doesn’t seem large enough to support that many families. And I know I was taken from my father ten years ago, so I don’t have a clear idea of his tastes, but this doesn’t look anything like a place I could imagine him living.

Now that I’m here, I can’t force myself out of the car.

This hold he has on me seems impenetrable. I remind myself that I’m not a child. I drove myself here. I’m almost six feet tall. I know how to defend myself.

I keep hearing Jim Murphy’s voice when he first heard Declan speak. You sound like a man.

What will my father expect? What will he say?

My phone chimes and I jump a mile.

It’s a message from Kristin.

Mom: Matthew says Emma was here, and she seemed upset. I thought you might want to know. XOXO

My eyes flick to the clock. It’s 3:57 p.m.

Upset? Upset how? I wish Matthew had a phone.

Upset enough that she came looking for me.

But then I notice I’ve missed two messages from someone else. They came through while I was driving.

Emma: Rev. I need to talk to you.

Please. I know you’re mad. Please don’t ignore me.

I type quickly on the face of my phone.

Rev: Not mad. I was driving. You OK?

I wait, but no response comes back. And now I’ve been sitting here long enough to be conspicuous. It’s 4:02 p.m.

I wonder if my father can see me.

Dec’s comment about the gun is so unwelcome right now. I try to imagine my father with a sniper rifle and fail. It wouldn’t be his style.

I need to get out of this car.

It’s nice to see you coming out of your shell a little bit.

I don’t think this is what Mom meant.

Her words do the trick, though. I climb out of Declan’s Charger. My feet shift in the grit of the parking lot and I study each window in turn. My heart pounds. I examine each pane of glass, watching for a face to be looking back at me.

Nothing. All the windows are covered by blinds or drapes.

I should push the hood back, I know. I should try to look normal. This hoodie is like a security blanket right now. For a weird moment, I’m glad my father isn’t in prison.

Then I shove the hood back. Mom and Dad have drilled manners into me for years. I won’t walk into someone’s home looking like the Grim Reaper.

As I climb the steps, the front door opens. I flinch at the sound, but it’s only a young woman in nursing scrubs heading out. She must be another tenant heading to work.

But she spots me and stops. Her eyes are tired, but kind. “Oh. Hello! Are you here to see a guest?”

I’m thrown. To see a guest? Would that make this a hotel? “I—I don’t know.”

The tiniest frown line appears between her eyes, but otherwise, her expression doesn’t shift. “Who are you here to see?”

I don’t want to say “my father” out loud. I also don’t know what business this is of hers. Her expression is so expectant that I can’t ignore her, though. “I’m going to unit one oh five.”

“Oh! Mr. Ellis?”

I swallow. “Yes. You know him?”

The frown line appears again. “Of course. I’m Josie. Come with me.” She turns and heads back through the door she just left.

Now I’m doubly confused. Does my father have a roommate?

Once through the door, I find myself looking at a large counter that runs the length of what must have been the living room of the house. A few sofas sit at angles to the walls, with a TV mounted overhead. Magazines are strewn across a coffee table between the sofas.

Behind the counter, two other women and one man sit at monitors. They’re all wearing scrubs, just like Josie. On the wall behind them, in large, scripty blue letters, is a sign that reads Chesapeake Hospice.

My mouth goes dry.

This can’t be right. I stop there in the hallway. “Wait.”

Josie stops and peers at me again. This close, I realize she’s not as young as I originally thought. Gray winds through her hair at the temples, and more lines crowd around her eyes as she becomes concerned. “Are you all right?” She pauses. “Is this your first time here? It doesn’t need to be frightening.”

Her voice is so kind. She reminds me of Mom.

I swallow. “Wait.” My voice is barely audible. “Wait.”

Now they’re all looking at me.

Another nurse steps away from her monitor, fills a small paper cup with water, and brings it to me. She’s older, and she pats my hand as she gives it to me.

Now I’m embarrassed. I take the cup sheepishly. “Sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t sure what this place was. He just gave me a unit number. I thought it was—” I swallow. “An apartment. Not …”

Not a hospice facility.

Not a place where people go to die.

“So Mr. Ellis is expecting you?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Wonderful,” says Josie. “I can take you back when you’re ready.”

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

This doesn’t seem fair. I can’t confront my father on his deathbed. I try to reconsider all his e-mails with this knowledge. Did I misread everything? Was he reaching out for some kind of connection?

I’m frozen in this space between the desk and the door, and I want a do-over. I want to enter this building with full knowledge.

I should have brought Declan.

No. The thought makes my spinning thoughts go still.

I can do this.

“Sorry.” My voice is husky. “I’m ready.”

Josie leads me down the hallway, and around a turn. Our feet are soft on the carpeting. I would give anything for guards and bars right now.

Then she stops in front of 105 and gives a gentle tap. We’re on the back side of the building; none of the windows here face the parking lot. He hasn’t seen me yet.

“Come in,” calls the voice from inside.

His voice. I remember his voice.

I take a step back without meaning to.

But then I steel my nerve, find my backbone, and walk through his door.