are beginning to spread out in front of me. Suddenly, I’m strug-
gling to understand the mystery that is my father—the one
constant in my life. Predictable ever since he worked through
the twelve steps of AA, regimented,
boring
in some respects.
But he’s an enormous question mark now.
He brings his protein shake to his lips for another sip.
I have more questions, but what’s the point in asking, if he’s
only going to fill my head with half-truths?
Maybe he’s trying to protect me from something.
Whatever he’s protecting me from, it’s bad.
“Sami, it’ll be okay.” He chucks me under the chin. “I
promise.”
“Okay.”
He presses a kiss to the part in my hair.
Instinctively, I wrap a hand around whatever I can grasp
onto—his arm, as it turns out—as if holding him here will keep
us both safe from the past and the future.
I feel the warmth of him near me, feel loved and close
and safe.
Guilt floods my heart.
Just last night I made a mental escape plan out of this house
in case I thought my father might harm me.
Maybe he’s lying to me, but he loves me. He could never . . .
What kind of a daughter thinks things like that?
“I gotta hit the shower, Sam. We’ll talk more tonight?”
I sniffle through an affirmation. Unless he actually put
it in his plan for the day—
7:35, reassure Sami for five to seven
minutes
—he’s taken time out of his meticulously scheduled
routine to have this talk.
“I assume you’ll already be bowling by the time I get home.
Long agenda today.”
37
