The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(34)

But after he fell asleep, I cleaned up the papers and covered him with a blanket from the couch. We didn’t talk about it the next day, but I could tell he was glad I was there. Some people don’t want to be confronted with their grief. They just want to know they’re not alone.

I take one last swig from my soda and set it down, watching my father through the glass. I brush my hair to the side, self-conscious of how he might react to my change. I build myself up to approach him, running through several possible starting points in the conversation.

Can I play?

Do you want some company?

I saw Isaac today. Oh, and by the way, my sister hates me. She’s pretty pissed at you, too.

Before I’ve committed to a course of action, I’m sliding open the heavy glass door and stepping out into the sunshine. My father glances back, at first disinterested, but then he bristles as he takes in my appearance. Running his gaze slowly over my hair. My clothes. He sways, but then sniffles hard and grabs a ball from the ground and hits it so hard, the crack of the bat against it makes me jump. Nothing I can say would reach him, I decide. I walk past the house to where a few bats lie in a pile on the ground next to the shed. I pick one up and test its weight, and then decide on the biggest one. Without a word, I walk over to where my father’s standing, looking into the trees beyond our yard like I’m measuring the distance. I feel him turn to me, watch as I lean down to pick up a ball.

I blow out a breath and then toss the ball in the air, swinging with all my might. I miss. My arms continue through the swing, spinning me in my shoes. Ouch. That can’t be good for my shoulder. There’s a snort, and I look over to see my father covering his mouth with his hand. I fight back my own embarrassed smile.

“That looked really stupid, huh?” I ask.

“It was quite possibly the worst swing I’ve ever seen,” he says, trying to stay straight-faced. “You nearly screwed yourself into the dirt.”

I laugh and bend to pick up the ball. I narrow my eyes, looking at the trees, my lips pressed tight together while I concentrate. And then I try it again and barely get a piece of the ball, making it land behind me.

“That was actually negative progress,” I say, glancing sideways at my dad. “Good thing we’re not keeping score.”

“Good thing for you,” he says. He picks up a ball and smacks it beyond the fence with what looks like little effort.

“Show-off,” I mumble, and then try again. He doesn’t offer advice or show me how to choke up on the bat. He’s clear on the difference between me and his daughter, still keeping his distance. But the fact that he’s letting me be here at all is a step forward.

It takes me five tries before I hit the ball in any measurable way.

“There you go,” my father says, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief from his back pocket. Sweat rings his underarms and patterns a V across his chest. We take a few more swings, my arms and back already aching, and I look longingly at the patio set.

“Let’s take a break,” my father says, reaching for my bat. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but I appreciate the gesture and give him the metal bat before following behind him to the table. I sit down first, and he takes a spot across from me, looking over my head at the woods. I’m thirsty, but I don’t want to interrupt our moment by going inside.

Birds are chirping and a slight wind picks up. The sun fades behind a few scattered clouds. My father exhales heavily and meets my eyes from across the table.

“How long have you been doing this for?” he asks. His question startles me, breaks me from my role play.

“Since I was six,” I tell him, still using his daughter’s voice. His eyebrows pull together, whether in sympathy or disbelief, I’m not sure. “I’ve been well trained,” I assure him. “I’m the best.” He smiles softly at this, but sadness overwhelms his expression.

“Have you ever lost anyone?” he asks.

“I lose someone every time I have an assignment,” I say. He shakes his head.

“I mean in the real world. Have you ever lost anyone close to you?”

Tiny pricks of grief that I can’t quite place break over my skin. “Yeah,” I tell him, my face growing hot. “My mother.”

He swallows hard, looking apologetic for bringing it up. He leans forward, his elbows on the table.

“How did you get over it?” he asks. “How did you learn to do that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my shoulders hunching. “I don’t remember anything about her.” I look up and meet his eyes. “I’ve forgotten her completely.”

My father’s lips part in surprise, and he watches me for a long moment. “Well, that’s almost worse, isn’t it?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

He looks back at the trees, but his eyes have glassed over. He feels sorry for me, and all at once I’m the vulnerable one. I lower my head, staring down at my hands on my lap. “I still miss her, though,” I say. “It’s just . . . a gnawing sense of loss. One that isn’t attached to an actual memory. An ache that never goes away.” When my father doesn’t respond, I look up to find him staring at me sadly. I shrug, trying to lighten this heavy moment I’ve brought down around us.

“I’m sorry,” he tells me sincerely. “You don’t deserve that. You’re . . . you’re just a kid.”