The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [98]
“I already checked it.”
“Are you s—?”
“Yes, Oliver, I’m sure,” he says, carefully pronouncing every syllable. “For the ninety-fifth time, I’m absolutely sure.”
It’s been three hours since Charlie joined me in the Warehouse of Useless Garbage doubling as Duckworth’s garage. In hour one, we were hopeful. By hour two, we got impatient. Now we’re just annoyed.
“What about those over there?”
Charlie glances at a stack of brown boxes stuffed between a heap of rusty lawn chairs and a broken, rotted-out barbecue. “I. Checked. Them,” he growls.
“And what was inside?” I challenge.
His ears burn fiery red. “Let me think… Oh yeah, now I remember—it was yet another carton of thumbed-through sci-fi novels and outdated-as-the-dinosaurs computer texts…” Ripping the lid off the top box, he pulls out two books: a water-damaged paperback copy of Fahrenheit 451, and a faded handbook titled The Commodore 64—Welcome to the Future.
I stare him down and point to the other boxes in the stack. “What about the ones underneath?”
“That’s it… I’m gone,” Charlie announces, flying toward the door. He trips and stumbles over one of Gillian’s oversized canvases, but for once he doesn’t land right back on his feet. Smacking into a separate stack of boxes, he regains his balance, but only after knocking the entire pile to the ground. Dozens of books scatter across the floor.
“Charlie, wait up!”
Chasing him into the living room, I quickly spot Gillian, who’s hunched over on the armrest of her dad’s wicker chair. Her head’s down and her elbows are resting on her knees. As she looks up, her eyes are all red—like she’s been crying.
Charlie blows right by her and disappears into the kitchen. I can’t help but stop.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She nods silently, but that’s all she’ll give. In her hands, she’s holding a blue wooden picture frame with a tiny Mickey Mouse painted in the bottom right corner. The picture inside is an old photograph of an overweight man standing in a swimming pool—and proudly showing off his tiny one-year-old girl. He’s got a crooked-but-beaming smile; she’s got a floppy beach hat and bright pink bathing suit. Even the moleman had his day in the sun. With the little girl frozen in mid-clap, he holds her close to his chest, arms wrapped snugly around her. Like he’ll never let go.
I don’t know Gillian Duckworth all that well—but I do know what it’s like to lose a parent.
Kneeling down next to her, I do my best to get her attention. “I’m sorry we’re rummaging through his life like this…”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Actually, it is. If we didn’t get you all riled up, we wouldn’t be—”
“Listen, if I didn’t go through his stuff now, I would’ve done it in six months. Besides,” she adds, looking down at the photo, “you never promised me anything.” She goes to say something else, but it never comes out. She just stares at the photo, shaking her head slightly. “I know it sounds pathetic, but it just makes me realize how little I knew him.” Her head stays low and her curly black hair cascades down the side of her neck.
“Gillian, if it makes you feel any better, we’ve got the exact same photo in our house—I haven’t seen my dad in eight years.”
She looks up and our eyes finally connect. She wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. There’s a tiny gap between her lips. I reach out and palm her shoulder, but she’s already turned away. She buries her face in her hands, and as the tears start flowing, she cries to herself. Even with me kneeling next to her, Gillian’s doing her best to keep it private. But eventually… as I’m learning… we all need to open up. Sagging sideways, she leans her head against my shoulder, wraps her arms around my neck, and lets the rest out. With each breathless weep, she barely makes a noise, but I feel her tears soak my shirt. “It’s okay,” I tell her as her breathing slows. “It’s okay to miss him.”
Over her shoulder, I spy Charlie watching us from the kitchen. He’s searching for the glint in her eye… the flicker in her voice… anything to prove it’s an act.