Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [107]
He’s silent for a few seconds. “Well, maybe I can imagine that,” he says. There’s another pause, and then, “It’s so small, the heart. They were the same age, did you know that? Truman and Louis-Charles. They were both only ten years old when they died. And I can’t help … I can’t help wondering how a child’s heart can be so small and so big all at once.”
His voice catches. He wipes his eyes. And I realize he’s crying. And suddenly, I am, too.
“I felt close to him there, Minna. In the lab. Working on the heart. It’s crazy, I know it is. But I felt he was there somehow. With me.” He takes a gulp of wine and says, “Yeah, I have. Matter of fact, I’m on my second bottle.”
Another pause, then, “Andi? Asleep, I think. I hope. Yeah. Pretty much the same. Hates me. Blames me for what happened. I know she does. I blame myself. If only I’d been around more.”
I blame him? No, that’s not it at all. He blames me. I know he does. I blame myself. Because it was my fault. I wait for him to finish, which he does after another minute or two. He puts the phone down, then sits very still, his head in his hands.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, taking a couple of steps toward him. I want to try to talk to him. About everything. About the heart and Truman and the diary and Virgil.
He looks up, startled, and wipes his face. “I thought you were sleeping, Andi. Where were you?” he says, awkward and suddenly angry.
Those words again. Where were you? They shut me down.
“Not where I was supposed to be, I guess. Once again.”
“What?” he says, looking confused. And very tired.
“Nothing. Forget it. Good night.”
I walk back to my room and close the door. I go to the wall. The one separating me from my father. I push on it. Slap it with my palms. Hit it with my fists. But it doesn’t move. I lean against it, sink down to the floor, and stay there for some time, my head in my hands.
51
It’s late Sunday morning and coffee is everywhere. On the counter. On the floor.
On my feet.
I’m a little out of it. I took four pills last night. After my little episode with my father. That’s more than I’ve ever taken at one time. They’ve Qwelled the pain and almost everything else. Gross motor skills are working but the fine motor skills are leaving a bit to be desired. I managed to get out of bed, put my clothes on, and stumble to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. But I somehow seem to have missed the cup.
I clean up the mess, then head to the dining room, where my father is sitting in a chair, reading my work. I sit down across from him and watch him. He looks pretty engaged. That’s good. After a few minutes he looks up at me. As if he just realized I’m here.
“So?” I say.
“This is wonderful, Andi. Very fine work. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical about the topic—”
“Really, Dad? I had no idea.”
“—but you did a great job. On both the outline and the intro. Very comprehensive. Who knew that mathematics figure so heavily in music?”
“Um, musicians?”
“Now all you have to do is finish it. Which shouldn’t be a problem. You have until May.”
“Finish it so I can graduate.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And what then? Go to Stanford? I don’t want to go to Stanford.”
He hesitates, then says, “We’ll talk about it.”
Which means he’ll talk and tell me all the reasons why music school is a bad idea. And I’ll listen. For about ten seconds. And then I’ll blow up. And he’ll blow up. And it will be Armageddon. Like it always is with us. And probably always will be. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. Because he just gave me the green light to fly home tonight and I’m going to do nothing—not one thing—to jeopardize that.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “You have your ticket? Your passport?”
“I’ve got everything, Dad. I’m all set.”
“I won’t be here when you leave. I’ll be in the lab all day. So don’t forget to call the airline before you go. In case they call a strike. I don’t want you stranded at Orly.”
“I won’t.”
“And call me when you get to the house. And remember to check in with Mrs.