I twist my head until I can catch a glimpse of my Aunt Andy, Cousin Dani, and Nonni all staring at us, but they quickly bolt once they see us looking at them. They must have gotten home before us. I shake my head, rubbing my hands up and down her spine.
“They don’t know anything about personal space.”
“They really don’t,” she agrees and removes herself from my grasp. I want to groan in protest, because finally having her in my arms feels like I had been holding my breath for years and can finally let it out. She slides her hand into mine and leads us into a walk as we approach the front door.
As soon as we enter the house, we see the three nosy women pretending to study a Christmas tree.
“This light needs to be replaced.”
“I don’t think I’ve noticed this ornament before.”
I roll my eyes. “You can quit the act. We saw you watching us making out.”
Nonni’s face grows red with embarrassment, and then she nudges Aunt Andy in the ribs. “It was her fault.”
“Was not. You’re the one?—”
“I wish someone would kiss me with as much passion as thetwo of you have,” Dani admits, wiggling her brows, making everyone feel uncomfortable.
There’s a cough that grabs our attention. The five of us spin around until we catch the sight of my dad sitting before us in his wheelchair. “Just so you know, I wasn’t watching,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender.
Everyone in the room chuckles at his comment. Everyone but me. The sound of his voice causes every muscle in my body to stiffen. I hate how much power he still has over me. Even if he’s sick, it doesn’t erase the damage he’s caused.
“Uh, Luke?” He says my name like a question, and I clench and unclench my fist over and over again as I wait for him to continue. “Could we maybe talk now?”
I drag in a breath that feels too big for my chest. I know that I was the one who said we could talk later, and now it’s later, but I’m still not sure if I am ready for this. I can feel the slight tremble in my hands. This time, it’s not fear. It’s the ache of everything he never said—everything he wants to tell me now. And I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for it.
Everyone’s eyes are on me in the room. Even God’s. I know that God is giving me free will here. He’s allowing me to make my own choices. Most days, I appreciate this, but in times like now, I wish He’d make the choice for me. I wish He’d lead this whole conversation with my father, but He wants me to lean on faith here. Not on my pain.
My throat is tightening, and I clear it before answering him, “Yeah. Sure.”
He gives me a wave to follow him, but before I can, Nonni lays a hand on my arm to stop me. “Why don’t you go wait for Luke in the sunroom? I think some tea would help make you both feel more comfortable, and I need his help to make it.”
My dad’s face sulks for a second, but he gives her a nod before his nurse wheels him off. I watch him leave, my eyes taking in every family member that’s sitting in the living room,studying us. Uncle Leo gives me a nod right before I return my attention to Olivia.
“You got this,” she whispers to me as she wraps me into a hug.
“I don’t. But God does,” I whisper back, giving her a small squeeze before she backs away, a small smile tugging on her lips.
Everyone finds their way deeper into the living room, and I follow Nonni into the kitchen. I lean against one of the counters as she glides through the kitchen, pulling out a few things to make the tea. I cross my arms and wait patiently until she finally turns to hand me something. I take the small white rectangle from her, turn it over, and see that it’s a photograph of my dad and me.
I look to have been about thirteen years old in this picture. Dad and I are sitting on the front porch of his old house, his arm is slung around my shoulder, and I’m leaning as far away from him as I can. He’s smiling in the photo, his dark hair slicked back, and to an outsider he might have looked happy.
Except for his eyes. His eyes were the same dark, almost black color. They held a certain lifelessness to them, but I notice that I don’t see his eyes as cold, deathly pits anymore.
I’m not smiling in the photo. My face is scrunched up, like I'm in pain or avoiding a bad smell. It could have been both. Seeing this version of myself only brings up past memories that I desperately want to forget. Memories I don’t want to think about before going into the other room to try to reconcile with my father.
Oftentimes, remembering can be destructive. I wish my mind would stop shifting between emotions and just let it be one or another. Not this uncertainty that keeps me from knowing if I’m still bleeding or finally healing.
“Why are you handing me this?” I ask after a quiet moment, raw pain revealed in the tremble of my voice.
“Because I want you to look at it while I explain something to you,” she replies after she places tea bags into two mugsbefore pouring in the hot water. “Do you know how pearls are made?”
My brows furrow together as I think about her random question, but knowing Nonni, she always makes a point with her stories, and it’s best to listen with an open mind.
“I know that it’s from sand, but I’ve never known the process.” I shift on my feet and place my free hand into my pocket.
“When an oyster has sand enter its shell, the sand begins to irritate its tissue. The sand can never be removed, and so the oyster then has to produce a substance that coats the sand with a smooth, translucent layer. It repeats this process over and over until the grain of sand becomes a beautiful pearl.”
