This Is Not How It Ends(74)

His face was close to mine. “Please just leave. Please, Charlotte . . .”

After that night, Philip and I never made love again. When he’d said I felt different, I took it to mean my sin had tarnished me, and the shame bubbled within me for days. What I later learned was that his broken body didn’t fit into mine anymore. That it was he who felt inadequate, he who felt guilty for not being able to give me what he thought I wanted. And that’s the thing. I didn’t know what I wanted. I was on cruise control with one mission in mind: to take care of Philip and love him through his last moments.

Pulling the sash on my bathrobe tighter, I left the room. There was only one time before that I’d ever felt so alone.

The dark memory of a long-ago morning swaddled me in angst. It was the day he left. My father. I was his little girl. The girl he loved better than any other. If anyone could stop him from walking away, it was me.

I had followed him down the front steps to the driveway, tripping over my Winnie the Pooh footed pajamas. He refused to look at me. “Charley, go back inside.”

I could tell he was crying, which didn’t stop me. “But Daddy,” I said, “you don’t have to cry. If you come back inside, we can have breakfast together. We can make pancakes.”

“Charley,” he said, this time rather sternly. “We’re not making breakfast today. I’m leaving. I have to go.”

To a seven-year-old, leaving was only temporary. As it should be. Forever was an infinite sadness children should never have to measure.

He was fitting his suitcase into the trunk. My mother was standing nearby, shouting at me. “Charlotte, come back inside.” She moved toward me, and I wriggled away. I would never understand the weight of those two dismissals. “Paul,” she said. “Look at your daughter. Look at her.”

Daddy refused.

I skipped over to the car and stood in front of him.

“Charley, you’re too young to understand. Please, child, please go to your mom.”

“But where are you going, Daddy? Who’s going to make the pancakes with me?” My voice was a threadlike whimper.

Daddy was losing his patience. I stood in front of him, making it difficult for him to get in his car and drive off. “Charley! Go in the house.”

“Daddy,” I cried. “You can’t leave.” He stepped away from me, and I dove on the ground, grabbing his legs. “Please don’t go, Daddy, please!”

I was bawling, broken tears sliding down my cheeks. He tried to pull away, which made me hold on tighter. I don’t remember much more. Only the way I held and grabbed and begged and how he finally broke free. And the ache. I would always remember the ache. The searing tear that could never be fixed, the useless effort to keep him from leaving. Because leaving wasn’t temporary. For a seven-year-old, it felt a lot like forever.

This early abandonment was how I came to bury my head in books. Through make-believe, I could numb my feelings by taking on the feelings of someone else. Stories were the remedy; within their pages, fathers didn’t really leave, broken families were a plot ploy. And now they could keep Philip from leaving. Foolishly I believed if I slipped inside this edited version of us, I could save him. By loving him and caring for him—final, desperate acts—maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t have to leave, and we could have that happy ending.



Days later, we were gathered around the dinner table with Liberty, Jimmy, and Ben; Sunny was panting nearby. Ben conspired with Liberty and had taken to preparing a variety of home-cooked meals and bringing them over. Tonight was brussels sprouts and coq au vin for me, a super-greens protein shake for Philip. Jimmy was in the middle of his final treatment for sugar. This meant plain chicken, cucumbers, and potato chips. Once that was complete, we’d move on to treating gluten, eggs, and peanuts, and Liberty was planning a celebration.

“Charley loves your coq au vin,” Philip said, rubbing his scalp as Ben dropped a spoonful in front of me. Suddenly, I felt nauseated. I pushed away the plate and helped myself to the brussels sprouts.

Jimmy reacted to the snub. “Remember Daddy taught you the recipe? You liked it.”

A question I couldn’t read lingered on Philip’s face. Ben was embarrassed, and he met none of our eyes, spreading butter feverishly on a dinner roll.

“Tomorrow I’ve rented a boat for all of us,” Philip announced. “I refuse to sit in this house any longer. You’re all invited.”

Liberty had been generous with my days off, though it meant she couldn’t join us.

“Can I come?” Jimmy asked.

Ben reminded him of school. “Another time, kiddo.”

“If it were up to me, Jimmy, you’d never have to go to school again. There’s far more important things to learn outside the classroom.”

Jimmy pleaded with his father. “Philip,” Ben said, “way to ruin years of lectures on the importance of education.”

“As I’ve said, there’s different forms of education, Goose.”

Jimmy sulked, and I echoed his emotion. “You don’t look pleased, Charley,” Philip remarked in my direction, his eyes prodding me.

I hesitated. “It’s a lovely idea.”

Ben offered to prepare sandwiches and snacks, while I soaked it all in. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck on a boat with the two of them—no lifeboat in sight—but I had brought this on, and I deserved every uncomfortable feeling.