Page 76 of Florescentia

“Lucia!” My father’s voice sounded relieved. “Lucia is on the phone,” he said off to the side, the delighted tone muffled.

“How are you, Papà?” It was a relief to hear him so lively. Was this because of my dabblings last night? I leaned against the wall as I continued. “Do you need me today?”

“I . . . ah. Yes, I need to see you,” he said, but no aftercomer to complete the thought.

“Surely I can visit.” I glanced around, looking for a notepad. “I could pick something up for lunch if you tell me ahead of time.” I wandered back to the kitchen, dragging the long cord behind me.

I reached around the corner by the stove, a notepad discarded on the counter. But no pen, so I was off to the parlor.

“Did you . . . ehm. Did you read the journal?”

The question stopped me in my tracks.

“No,” I lied. “Do you need it back?”

“I . . . well, I need you to read it, all right? Read it,” he whispered, “please, Lucy.”

“You want me to?” I wasn’t sure why I’d lied, but I didn’t want to distress him again.

“Yes, uhm . . . yes, I want you to,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s important.”

My mother’s voice chimed in the back, the rustling of tea-ware present among the static.

“I will see you today”—it wasn’t a question—“she is coming,” he said, but not to me.

“Lucy is coming?” My mother’s voice beside him. “I need biscotti.” Her voice was closer to the phone now to deliver her request.

“Biscotti.” I didn’t need to make a note of the single demand.

“I like biscotti. I used to make them with your mother.” I could hear the smile on his face. “We should tell Lucy we will have them. Where is she?”

“She’s on the phone.” My mother’s patient voice. “Don’t worry, she’s coming,” she assured him. The voices were becoming muffled.

“On the phone?” His voice became clear again. “Lucy!” His sigh of relief was more painful to hear than the last.

I had to gather myself before I opened my mouth.

“Yes, Papà, I’m here.”

“I need to see you,” he insisted.

“Papà,” I said, my voice cracking.

“I will handle it.” My mother’s voice crackled through the phone, his complaints farther away now. “Try for late lunch,” she told me more quietly.

“Will do,” I said softly.

The phone clicked, but I couldn’t bring it away from my ear.

I sat on the parlor sofa, placing the receiver to my chest as I lay down. The cord snaked across the hallway and the parlor, connecting me to the wall like some metaphorical umbilical cord.

Nothing could stop the wave that hit me. The grief that struck all at once. Always, I wanted to be strong. I wanted to help. But it was like my body was physically repelled by my childhood home, just knowing what waited inside. It was a time capsule in more than one way, more so for him than anything. The tears stung. I didn’t bother pushing them back, instead closing my eyes, as if that would stop them altogether.

He needed my help, and I needed his.

I took a full breath, then a sluggish exhale. Just like I had the night before. Steady breaths to ground, to slow the heart. I imagined the deafening silence of submersion, the stillness that was needed to remind your body you were not drowning, and to take a breath.

Something touched my face.