Whatever It Takes

By the time Tyson comes back with sushi—how long has it been since I’ve had sushi?—I’ve finished crying and taken a pain pill that further mellows my mood. I apologize for being angry—it was the easiest feeling to feel. He nods his understanding and takes the plastic top off the takeout container. We’re quiet while we eat. The meds make the sushi taste tinny, so I eat only three pieces before letting him have the rest. He helps me change into a clean set of pajamas and then makes me take another walk around the parking lot even though it’s only fifty degrees outside. I’m shivering by the time we return. Neither of us talks about the letters or Dad or the fact that Tyson knew about the letters. He’s known since our honeymoon that Dad was lying to me about something. I’m the only person who is surprised.

The pills make me sleepy and apathetic. Who cares about the stupid letters? I’m probably going to die like my mother did anyway. Tyson helps tuck me in, then turns off the lights so I can sleep even though I suspect he’ll be up for another couple of hours, working by the light of his computer. I’ve always been a side sleeper, but lying on my right side is out of the question, and when I try to lie on my left side, gravity pulls on the right. So I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, reviewing the day and trying to plan ahead even though it’s hard to think.

“I was thinking maybe we could tell Dad that we went hiking or rented some mountain bikes or something. The weather’s been nice enough. I fell and hurt my shoulder.” The bandaging doesn’t include my shoulder—it’s tight around my chest and under my arm—but a shoulder injury seems like the best fit.

Tyson is quiet for a minute. “I think between what you didn’t find in your dad’s files, the letters, and his not answering questions about your mom’s cancer, there’s a lot to deal with.” He pauses as though letting that sink in. “And you may not be in the best place to deal with it. You just had a tumor removed, things have been hard for you and me for a really long time, and you’re in pain. I mean, if you feel like you should tell him, I’ll support you, but there’s no real downside to waiting a bit longer, ya know?”

“That makes sense,” I say, and I’m relieved to hear someone else support the hesitation I’ve felt to confront Dad. A hesitation that’s only increased as one thing after another has risen up to block my way. It’s going to be even harder for me to be around Dad now, knowing all this stuff and wanting answers but not being ready to ask the questions, or trust what he might say if I do. I remind myself how much I love him and how much he loves me. That helps some, but it also intensifies the betrayal.

It’s getting harder for me to keep my eyes open, and my thoughts are getting fuzzy around the edges, so I hurry to finish what I need to say. “You’re right that I can’t work the ranch yet, but I’ll be more active if I’m home, and that will help me heal. And my bed is better, so maybe I’ll recover faster. If you can help, then I won’t feel so bad. . . .”