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  The dampness of my pillow forces me to flip directions. Light from the streetlamp shines through my shutters and crisscrosses with the dead strands on my sheet. How did I not ask where he was going? My mind swirls in circles, refusing to rest. Always coming back to this image. This question. Is he alone?

  I reach across to my nightstand and swipe my phone on. It’s only seven after ten, but it feels like it could be past midnight. A heaviness weighs on my eyelids, but staring into the darkness is better than the images my mind is creating. I haven’t eaten since lunch. My stomach gurgles in revolt, and the pounding in my head is a sure sign of caffeine withdrawal.

  Mom tried to feed us, but even Tom turned down her offer to defrost her famous meat pie. It was guilt pie anyways. She was the one who sent Dad away. I couldn’t even stomach the Earl Grey tea she made. It still sits untouched on my nightstand. I must be in shock; tea usually comforts me when I’m grieving. But I refuse to admit I have anything tangible to grieve. Not yet, at least.

  Emotionally and physically spent, we closed down the house by nine, and since then, we have each attempted to put a close to the worst day our family has ever experienced. But Dad will be awake. Over the past few weeks, his sleeping patterns have become erratic, but it is rare he’s not in front of a TV for the late-night news. Even on the evening when Grams’ body was shutting down, he broke his bedside vigil to hear the day’s fiscal balance. It must be his version of tea consumption or running—temporary distraction from unrelenting stress.

  After a minute of scrolling through my recent texts and phone calls, it hits me that I rarely if ever call Dad. I search out his contact information. When I bring up our text history, the last message was from his coworker’s wedding back in May: “We’ll be home around 12:00. Please give Grams a kiss and lock up.”

  I rub my pulsating temple, then type, “Hey, Dad, can you talk?”

  Nothing.

  Woolie moans as I heave out of bed to peer down through the shutters at our snow-dusted driveway. A black oval of asphalt lies vacant next to Mom’s red Elantra. I crane my neck to search up and down our curved street. Maybe he’s parked at the school or the conservation area. He could be waiting for one of us to say it’s okay to come home for the night. Unlikely, but if there is a slight chance he could be close, I need to try.

  From my school bag, I grab my gym clothes that reek and need to be washed and then pull on a hand-me-down hoodie to ward off the temperature drop. Woolie uncurls from his cocoon with the sound of my door opening but does not rise as I close it behind me. The stairs creak ever so slightly on my descent. I exit the side door with my running shoes in hand. Through the thin layer of my socks, the burn of frozen cement bolts me awake. I stuff my feet into my shoes and jog to the front of the house.

  The sidewalks are slick with a sheen that ignites my heart to a post-run tempo. I pull out my phone from the kangaroo pocket. Still no response. Whether I find him or not, this run may actually help to slow the staccato beat in my chest.

  The air smells of salt and fire as I crunch along the grass that fringes the sidewalk. An occasional car swooshes past, but otherwise, the surrounding neighborhood lies dormant. Out of habit, I start on my usual route. North on Hillside, then behind Ridgefield High along the park paths that lead to Upper Ridge Conservation Area. The route offers a perfect three-mile loop away from traffic and hard sidewalks, but there is no way I’m risking icy paths tonight or missing the slight chance of seeing Dad’s car along the roads. Instead, I turn off of Hillside onto Queen, toward downtown Ridgefield. I pan the driveways for our gray minivan, but in my gut I know he will not have found refuge in a neighbor’s home.

  Dad has never been much for socializing. The last few months, he didn’t even greet our neighbors when picking up the paper or traveling to work. When he did travel to work. Has he been this week? Or left the house? He didn’t change out of his pajamas most days. It’s like he’s already given up.

  From within my pocket, a pulsed vibration and ding jolt me from my rhythm. It’s a text from Dad. “Sorry, sweetheart. Was just outside.”

  I stop. Outside where? He’s still typing, but before the next message can appear, I swipe over to FaceTime. I pace up and down the sidewalk waiting for his face to appear. Five rings pass before my darkened square appears in the corner of the screen. I can’t hear or see anything from his end. I power walk to the bus shelter at the next intersection and slip inside to escape the rushes of wind.

  Blurred skin covers his camera. “Just give me a second.” His fingers dim and then become lighter. He’s walking somewhere, the sound muffled by his breath and hand. The phone clunks onto a dark surface, and there is silence, long enough for me to question if we have disconnected.

  “Dad?” I sit on the cold metal bench and listen to our shared breathing.

  His navy housecoat appears, and then the dimmed silhouette of his face. “Sorry, honey, I was finding a quieter place to talk.” He angles the phone away from a floor lamp, and the creased lines of his forehead come into focus. “Where are you?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.” Other than the beige corner of a wall behind him, there is nothing to indicate his location. At least he’s inside.

  “Are you at a bus stop?” He squints at his screen. A large schedule of the main route through town is visible behind me.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I tried calling, but you—”

  “Get back home.” His voice edges on stern, but then withers. “Please, go home. Your mother can’t handle anything else.”

  My mother? What about him? There is no fight left in his voice. Now, more than ever, I want a lecture on why I shouldn’t be out so late. How reckless it is for me to be at a bus stop in the middle of the night.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. I’m out for a run. I thought it might help.” He doesn’t need to know I’m running around town looking for him.

  His body folds forward with his exhale, shifting the view. Behind his head, the lamp comes into focus.

  “Sweetheart, does your mom even know where—”

  Wait. I know that lamp. The white shade has a distinct mauve trim. It matches perfectly with a shag carpet on the ground. If I could see that I’d know. “Dad, where are you?”

  The phone shifts back to his scruffy neck and chin. “Does your mother know where you are?” His voice is flat and quieter this time.

  “She’s asleep. Now answer my question.” A tingly sensation raises all the hairs on my arms. I wait for him to say what I’ve already guessed.

  His curved hand covers the top half of his face, but the tension in his jaw is enough to confirm. He shakes his head and says nothing. The familiar muffled sound of beeps and codes on the intercom resonate through my phone like I’m sitting in Dr. Kowalski’s office next to him.

  “Dad. Why are you at the hospital? Is he there?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I’m at the hospital. But it is no concern to you.”

  “Yes, it is.” My voice screeches upwards. “Why are you in his office? What did he say to you? Is something going on with him and Mom? Let me talk to—”

  “Thea. Stop. This is none of your business.”

  “This is so my business. It’s my family too.” I slam my hand onto the hard, unforgiving bench and wince at the sting. But he’s still absent from the fight.

  With zero strain in his voice, he asks, “Which stop are you at? I’ll have your mom come pick you up.”

  “She’s sleeping.” I lower the phone from view and rise from the bench back onto Queen. “I’m coming there.”

  If he won’t listen to me through the phone, he will have to face-to-face.

  His voice suddenly booms into my hand. “No, you will not. Look at me.”

  My heart responds with the intensity of my gait.

  “Stop and look at me. Now.”

  I raise the phone but continue on my new path. An icy spark of emotion has entered his eyes. “Get out of your own head, Thea. For once. This
is not about you, and I’m sick of you trying to make it another one of your issues.” He lowers his voice but speaks with a coldness that parallels the escalating wind. “I need space. From your mother, from Tom, and from you. I do not want to see you tonight.”

  I stop. Lower the phone and allow the tremors to overtake my body. I wanted a lecture. And I got it.

  “Thea? Do you understand?”

  “Yep.” No. Not remotely. How can he want to be alone?

  Watching the lights of a neighboring home go out makes me desperate to bring him back. To make him fight for his marriage—for our family. “I just wanted to make sure you had someplace to sleep tonight.” I raise my phone again.

  He nods. “I can take care of myself, despite what your mom might say.”

  I want to believe him because he never lies. At least, to my knowledge, he never has to me.

  “Okay.” I hover over the red button but can’t press end. “Don’t call Mom. I’ll get back on my own.”

  “Okay.” He still nods, but now his whole body sways with the motion. “I’m sorry. I love you, sweetheart.”

  I join in his rocking, wanting for the first time in forever to be in his arms. “Love you too, Dad.”

  A siren wails in the distance, shooting my attention to the surrounding streets. The bright lights flash off buildings as an ambulance turns from Hillside and roars past en route to the hospital. A moment later the siren resounds in the distance. Now closer to Dad than me.

  “Thea?” He waits for me to look back at my phone. “Can you text me when you get home?”

  I nod.

  “And make sure to lock up.” A slight furrow appears on his forehead. Did I remember to do it the last time he asked? Probably not.

  I furrow back at him. It shouldn’t be my job to lock up. To make sure we’re safe. He should be at home. To welcome me. To protect me. Not to leave me in a silent, broken home. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  He nods once and then disappears.

  Questions, more than before, race through my mind as I round the corner toward home. Why was he at the hospital? Does he know about Dr. Kowalski? Or was he there for other reasons? Worse reasons. I quicken my stride by counting paces between fire hydrants, decreasing my number by one with each interval. And yet the questions won’t stop parading through my mind. Would he give up on us? On life?

  The bungalow within the elms marks my next hydrant, and I widen my steps to arrive below my goal. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven … and then I lose track of steps. Something is off. It takes me a moment to figure it out. My last few paces no longer crunch through the grass. Surrounding the hydrant, footsteps have flattened the thin layer of snow, leaving the brown grass exposed. I glance over to the Shens’ home. Every light is on, but there is no sign of Mrs. Shen. A car still remains near the garage, but wider treads mark the bottom of the driveway in multiple places.

  Weird. Didn’t Khi say Mr. Shen was gone? I assumed that meant he’d died. He never would have left his wife alone otherwise. He never would’ve given up on her. They were inseparable. They depended on each other.

  In some convoluted way, maybe this is how I’d envisioned my parents when they got older. Or even more, it’s what I wish they could’ve been like now. Mom and Dad used to talk about buying a smaller place after I graduated high school. They’d stay in town but downsize. Less to clean. Less to heat. Dad would get back into antique car restoration. Mom would cut back on her hours at the hospital and discover a new hobby—one that didn’t involve crafting the details of my life. Maybe that’s how Mom pushed Dad away too. So what if he was moody? He’d lost his mother and failed as the provider of the household, despite his financial obsessions.

  I kick at the already trampled snow. This life will never be theirs. They will never be close to the Shens. Dad has given up. Mom has moved on. There is nothing left to go home to, except an empty house pretending to hold life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dr. Kowalski is disheveled. There are wrinkles in the sleeves of his oxford shirt, one loafer is scuffed, and his eyelids seem heavy beneath his thick glasses. Compared to Dad, he could still be set for a wedding. But for Dr. Kowalski, it is more than odd. It is suspicious.

  “How are you feeling right now, Thea?” he says with a voice that sounds dipped in fake syrup.

  “How do you think?” I staccato each word. Why would he even ask that question? His artificial sweetness isn’t going to work with me. He must know Mom is a disaster. He might be the reason my nuclear family no longer exists. What kind of advice has he been doling out to Mom on the side? And what did he say to Dad last night? “Better yet, how are you feeling today, Dr. Kowalski?”

  His chair creaks with the shifting of his weight. “I am a little tired today, but we are here to talk about you.” He slides a hand through his hair, brings his laptop onto his knees and starts typing. “When we last met, you were telling me—”

  “When we last met I had a family that lived in the same home,” I interrupt. “Did you make a note of that in my file? Or maybe you shouldn’t keep track of how you personally destroyed my family.”

  The clicks stop and he glares with a ferocity matching my own. And then it’s gone. All emotion disappears from his face, but the mask doesn’t reach his shoulders. They fold forward with his exhale. He knows everything. More than I do.

  My body tightens. I can’t decide who I should be more infuriated with: Mom, for forcing me to see him this morning, or this so-called professional, whose vested interests seem to extend far beyond me.

  “Thea, I need you to listen carefully before you make any assumptions.” He uses the same tone and cadence Mom did last night. “I’m aware your parents have been going through a difficult time …”

  There is no room in my chest to breathe. All I feel is throbbing pain. I reach for the corners of the chair, not wanting to listen carefully to anything he has to say. I begin to rise but am thrust back down by nausea bubbling in my stomach. The edges of the room blur. Please, not now. I lower my body, press on my forehead, and wait for it to pass.

  It’s happening.

  Dr. Kowalski’s voice swells above the rushing noise. “Vera and I have been discussing what should be our first step ...”

  Again, I struggle to leave but don’t even make it off the seat. His office fades and still his voice pounds through.

  “We both feel it would be best for your father …”

  Please make him stop. The white noise increases like sheets of rain beating sideways against my eardrums.

  “Thea? Thea, are you listening? Vera and I both want what’s best for—”

  “Stop talking!” I stagger to the door. A new layer of sterile light and the stench of sanitizer and body fluids accost my senses. Blindly, I grasp the guide rail and follow its path around the corner from his office. My eyes regain focus on a long hall of patient rooms. He calls from around the corner, panic in his voice. I dash toward the first dark room and fight the urge to slam the door behind me. It clicks lightly. A pounding of feet passes by. I drop to the floor, shaking.

  There is stillness. Only the sound of heavy breaths. Two bodies at different rates. The blinds on the window are drawn, leaving the room dim, except for a small lamp behind the curtained bed.

  I scan the room, frozen in fear of being found or heard by anyone—from outside or within. The lit curtain perfectly silhouettes the rise and fall of the bed’s occupant, but the light travels with the movement. Wait, is it a lamp? I rub my fist over my forehead and glare once again at the curtain. No, it has to be a person.

  The chest rises higher and then stops. I inhale and wait. There is a rustling from the waterproof hospital mattress. The light falters for a moment and then resumes its pale glow. I hold my breath. A schizophrenic psychopath could be lying in wait behind this curtain, like the ones in Mom’s inpatient horror stories. Or a scared child, filled with worse terrors than my own. Through the strained breathing, these words circle around, Do not be afraid. Over and
over again. Someone is fighting for me. God is fighting for me. And I want Him to win. I need Him to win.

  I will not be afraid.

  Slowly at first, my breath releases. Why should I be afraid? Whatever their problems, they are like me—flawed and hurting. Reality check: I’m likely the most messed-up person in the room. And Mom already knows that.

  Wait. Is that the first step? Does Dr. K have a bed waiting for me down the hall? All he needs is confirmation of my unstable condition, and he can check the last box off. I reach into my jacket pocket for my phone. I need to get out of here.

  Call Khi.

  I dial, bite my lip, and wait for his voice. Why does he not have a cell phone yet? Each ring echoes like an alarm clock for the sleeping psychopath. I could have texted him in silence.

  His voicemail kicks in even louder. “Hi, you’ve reached Khi. Sorry to have missed you. Please leave a message.”

  Where are you, Khi?

  If I wasn’t so desperate to speak with him, I would hang up. Instead, I twist away from the bed and whisper into the phone, “Khi, it’s me. Please call when you get this. I need help. I don’t know what to do …”

  A rustle comes from behind the lit curtain. I press the disconnect button.

  A weak cough echoes and a raspy whisper fills the dim room. “Khi, is that you?”

  I clutch the phone to my chest.

  “Khi?” The strained voice of an elderly woman calls in my direction.

  An uncontainable urge pulls me up from my crouched position. I crane my neck forward to the edge of the curtain. A peach housecoat lies draped over a wooden armchair. I know who this is.

  The steps come easily now. My voice almost startles me when it comes out above a whisper. “Khi’s not here, Mrs. Shen.”

  She pans the length of her bed in search of my voice and then calls again. “Khi?” Her entire body flickers with light, on and off like a firefly.

  Can she not see me? I reach for her hand that clutches the railing of her bed. “He’s not here. Can I help?” A door closes in the hallway and footsteps approach.