Chapter 14 - The Sheets Still Smelled Like Home
The house smelled closed up when Dad turned the key. Dust and cold air and laundry soap still stuck in the walls. I stood in the hallway with my sister's hand in mine and listened to our shoes sound too loud on the wood.
He didn't say anything at first. He just walked through and flipped on lights. Living room. Kitchen. The hallway bulb buzzed. Everything was where we'd left it. The couch with the slipped cover. My school picture still taped to the fridge. He stopped in the doorway of our room like he couldn't move for a second.
Our beds were still there. The blankets were folded back crooked, the way we'd left them that last morning before Claire said pack for Portugal. Dust had settled on my pillow. I could see his jaw work when he saw that.
"I'll make them up fresh," he said.
He pulled the sheets off both beds and shook them out in the hall. Dust lifted in the light. He got clean ones from the linen closet, the blue set with the little stars and the plain white one for my sister. His hands were careful, smoothing every corner, tucking tight. I'd never watched him do it that slow before.
While the washer ran with the old sheets, he went door to door. Front door deadbolt. Back door chain. The little window lock in the kitchen that always stuck. He checked it twice. He tested the back door with his shoulder. Then he left the porch light on.
"We're locked in for the night," he said. "Nobody comes in unless I open it."
My sister sat on the edge of her made bed and didn't get under the covers yet. She held her folded pajamas in her lap. The ones Dad had bought at the store on the way, still with the creases from the package.
"Dad," she said. "Did you ever write goodbye?"
He stopped with his hand on the light switch. He looked at her, then at me.
"No," he said. "I never did."
"Claire read it to us," she said in a small voice. "She said you said you needed space and Portugal was better."
I sat down next to her. My hair was almost dry now. It felt stiff from the rain and the church air. I put my arm around her shoulders.
Dad pulled the chair from the desk and sat facing us. He took his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled for a minute until he found the pictures he'd taken in the truck of those printed pages.
"Can I read them out loud?" he asked. "The ones she showed you? I want you to hear me say it."
We both nodded.
He read the first one. "I can't be your dad right now. Don't wait for me." He looked up. "I never wrote that. I never thought that, not one day in six months."
My sister picked at the hem of her new shirt. "Read the next."
He read, "Tell the girls I sold the house. It's cleaner this way." His voice caught. "I never wrote that either. You saw tonight. The house is still here. It's still ours."
He kept going through three more, short lines about Portugal and about him starting over and about not calling. Each time he said, "I didn't write this," firm and plain. No big speech. Just the denial, over and over, until my sister's shoulders dropped a little.
"Why did she do it?" I asked.
He rubbed his eyes. "To keep us apart long enough that I'd give up and marry her today. That's all I'm sure of right now."
He put the phone away. "If anyone ever shows you words from me again, you ask me straight. You hear my voice. Okay?"
"Okay," we both said.
He heated soup from cans because that was all we had. We ate at the kitchen table with towels around our shoulders. The house ticked as it warmed up. The refrigerator hummed. Normal sounds I hadn't realized I'd missed. My sister finished half her bowl and leaned her head against Dad's arm. He didn't move, just let her stay there.
At bedtime he tucked her in first, then me. He sat between our beds on the floor with his back against the wall.
"You want the hall light on?" he asked.
"Yes," my sister said fast.
He left it on and the door cracked. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere tonight. I'll be on the couch."
I reached across the gap between our beds and found my sister's hand. She turned on her side toward me and I curled around her the way I had in the apartment when she had bad dreams. I could feel her breathing fast against my arm at first, then slower. In and out. In and out.
Dad stayed until her breath evened out. I heard him stand up quiet. He touched my forehead, just his fingers, light.
May you like
"Sleep," he whispered. "You're home."
I held my sister tighter and listened to her breathe until mine matched hers, and I fell asleep to that sound in our own room with the doors locked and Dad down the hall.
