Chapter 13 - Dad Had Seen Julia Once
I asked two days later.
Not because I couldn't wait.
Because I decided I wanted to know.
“What did Dad say?”
Julia didn't make me specify.
“He asked if you were still angry.”
“At you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn't know.”
“Then?”
“He said he missed having both daughters in the same room.”
I stared at the kitchen window.
“That sounds like Dad.”
Julia continued:
“I asked why he never called me.”
“What did he say?”
She paused.
“He said I knew his number.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Richard Carter's entire emotional vocabulary in six words.
“What did you say?”
“I said he knew mine too.”
“Then?”
“We ate lunch.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did he apologize?”
“Not the way I wanted.”
“What does that mean?”
“He said he should not have told me to leave the house.”
“That sounds like an apology.”
“He followed it with ‘but you had no business in our marriage.’”
I winced.
“So.”
“So I told him Mom asked me.”
“What did he say?”
Julia was quiet.
“That he didn't believe me.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“He died still believing it?”
“Maybe.”
“You didn't talk again?”
“No.”
I rubbed my forehead.
No hidden final truth.
No dead man secretly fixing the whole thing.
Dad had received Julia's version once.
He rejected it.
Then died years later.
Ugly.
Complete enough.
“Why didn't you tell me you saw him?”
Julia laughed quietly.
“We weren't speaking.”
“Mom?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn't want her turning one lunch into reconciliation.”
Fair.
Then:
“Did you want him to call again?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call?”
“No.”
We both knew the pattern now.
It did not automatically stop it.
Julia changed the subject.
“Ava wants to come east during winter break.”
My chest tightened.
“To see Lily?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And maybe you.”
I looked toward Lily’s backpack on the kitchen chair.
“What do you want?”
Julia took time.
“I don't know.”
“Real answer.”
“That is the real answer.”
I accepted it.
Then she said:
“I don't want Ava building a relationship with you that becomes leverage between us.”
“Agreed.”
“I don't want you telling Lily I abandoned everybody.”
“I have never told her that.”
“Good.”
“What did you tell Ava?”
Julia went quiet.
I waited.
“I told her we stopped speaking because we hurt each other and got good at staying hurt.”
I almost objected to the symmetry.
Then decided I could survive one sentence without litigating percentages.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Don't get excited.”
She laughed.
That weekend Lily asked:
“Is Aunt Julia coming for Thanksgiving?”
“No idea.”
“Can she?”
I almost said we'll see.
Instead:
“She can be invited.”
Lily frowned.
“Same thing?”
“No.”
She considered.
“Are you inviting her?”
I looked at my phone.
May you like
Not yet.
That answer was mine.
