Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“The realtor is having an Open House next week,” I answer, suppressing the urge to praise Dad for doing the right thing. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his age, so anything having to do with his or my mom’s health is off limits as far as dinnertime conversation. It drives me crazy, but at the same time, I can’t help but admire his resolve.
At almost eighty-seven years of age, my dad is as tough as ever.
“Oh, good,” Mom says. “I hope you’ll get some offers from that. Be sure to bake cookies that morning; they make the house smell nice.”
“I might ask my realtor to buy some and microwave them before the first visitors arrive,” I say, smiling at her. “I don’t think I’ll have time to bake.”
“Of course she won’t, Lorna.” Dad takes a seat next to Mom and reaches for a slice of pie. Glancing up at me, he says gruffly, “You probably won’t be home at all, right?”
I nod. “I’m supposed to go to the clinic straight from the hospital that day.”
He frowns. “You’re still doing that?”
“Those women need me, Dad.” I try to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “You have no idea what it’s like in that neighborhood.”
“But, darling, that neighborhood is precisely why we don’t want you going there,” Mom interjects. “Can’t you volunteer elsewhere? And going there at night, after you’ve already put in one of your long shifts…”
“Mom, I never carry cash or valuables with me, and I’m only there for a couple of hours in the evenings,” I say, hanging on to my patience by a thread. We’ve had this argument at least five times in the last three months, and each time, my parents pretend like we’ve never discussed this before. “I park right in front of the building, and go straight in. It’s as safe as can be.”
Mom sighs and shakes her head, but doesn’t argue further. Dad, however, keeps frowning at me over his slice of pie. To distract him, I get up and say, “Would anyone like some coffee or tea?”
“Decaf coffee for your dad,” Mom says. “And chamomile tea for me, please.”
“One decaf coffee and one chamomile tea coming up,” I say, walking over to the fancy coffee machine I got for them last Christmas. After I make the requested drinks and bring them to the table, I go back and make a cup of real java for myself.
After this dinner, I’m going to be on call and could use the caffeine.
“So guess what, darling?” Mom says when I rejoin them at the table. “We’re going to have the Levinsons over for dinner on Saturday.”
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s hot and strong, just like I like it. “That’s nice.”
“They’ve been asking about you,” Dad says, stirring sugar into his coffee.
“Uh-huh.” I keep my expression neutral. “Please tell them hello for me.”
“Why don’t you come over too, darling?” Mom says, as though the idea just occurred to her. “I know they would love to see you, and I’ll make your favorite—”
“Mom, I’m not interested in dating Joe—or anyone—right now,” I say, softening my refusal with a smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m not there yet. I know you love Joe’s parents, and he’s a wonderful lawyer and a very nice man, but I’m just not ready.”
“You won’t know if you’re ready until you get out there and try,” Dad says while Mom sighs and looks down into her tea cup. “You can’t let yourself die alongside George, Sara. You’re stronger than that.”
I gulp down my coffee instead of replying. He’s wrong. I’m not strong. It’s all I can do to sit here and pretend that I’m okay, that I’m still whole and functional and sane. My parents, like everyone else, don’t know what happened that Friday night. They think George passed away in his sleep, his death the belated result of the car accident that put him in a coma eighteen months earlier. I explained away the closed-casket funeral as a way for me to cope with my grief, and nobody questioned it. If my parents knew the truth, they’d be devastated, and I’ll never do that to them.
Nobody except the FBI and my therapist know about the fugitive and my role in George’s death.
“Just think about it,” Mom says when I remain silent. “You don’t have to commit to anything or do anything that you don’t want to do. Just please, consider coming over this Saturday.”
I look at her, and for the first time, I notice the strain hidden under her perfect makeup and stylish accessories. My mom is nine years younger than my dad, and she’s so trim and energetic that sometimes I forget that age is taking a toll on her too, that all this worry about me can’t be good for her health.