These Tangled Vines(87)

Time in the air also provided precious opportunity to reflect upon what I had learned about myself since my arrival in Tuscany. I was relieved to know the complete, unspoiled truth about how I had come into the world. It had not been an assault upon my mother or any other form of seduction or ravishment. It had been an act of love, and even the keeping of secrets had been an act of love, in its own complicated way, stirred together with guilt. A wife had hidden something from her husband to protect him from further heartbreak following a terrible trauma. She had buried the truth to give him a reason to live. She had sacrificed her own desires in the process.

I now understood that my silence had been a continuation of that act of love—to protect the father I’d always adored and idolized for his courage and fortitude in challenging circumstances. At all times, my mother and I had placed his happiness and well-being above our own. We did everything in our power to shelter him from further injury, both physical and emotional.

Had it been a two-way street? Had he done the same for us?

No. I understood now that he had not. He had allowed us to make those sacrifices, and he had been doing that to my mother since the day they met—long before her infidelity and the tragic accident that changed his life. In the beginning, he’d needed her to support him while he wrote his book—not just financially but emotionally as well. He needed her to provide for him and build him up and ignore her own dreams. When she wanted to have a child, he was reluctant because it would have gotten in the way of his writing, and it didn’t matter to him that my mother had deep, genuine longings for motherhood.

After the accident, his needs morphed into something else. He needed her, and me, to remain at his side and never leave him. He needed us for his own physical and mental survival.

As I looked out at the breathtaking view of white cottony clouds just below the aircraft, I didn’t know what to do with my thoughts and feelings. It was a complicated situation, and I had no idea how Dad would react when I told him where I had been for the past week. What would he say when he found out I had been to Tuscany and uncovered all his secrets—and that I had lied about where I had gone?

I supposed I was in no position to judge him for keeping secrets. I had kept secrets too.



After collecting my bags at the airport, I took a cab home and walked into the house where I grew up. Instantly, I detected the familiar sound of light fabrics spinning in the dryer in the laundry room. It was a constant in our home: the washing and disinfecting to guard against infections. Having been away for a week, I realized how much the house smelled like a hospital.

I dropped my keys onto the breakfast bar, then moved down the hall to my father’s room, where he was sitting up in bed and Dottie was giving him a shave.

“Hey there,” I said from the doorway.

Dottie jumped with surprise and set the razor down on a stainless steel tray. “You’re back!” She moved to hug me. “How was your trip?”

“Amazing,” I replied. “Exhausting. Enlightening.”

“I want to hear all about it,” Dottie said, “but I should let you two say hello first. He’s only half-shaved, as you can see.”

“I’ll finish up for you,” I replied, for I had shaved Dad many times. I knew the drill.

“Wonderful. I’ll go pour myself a cup of tea.”

Dottie left us alone. I moved closer and kissed the top of Dad’s head. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, sweet girl,” he replied. “I’m glad you’re home. How was the flight?”

“Wonderful,” I said. “No delays. And the sky was blue over the Atlantic. I could see for miles.”

Standing at his bedside, I picked up the razor. The scent of the shaving cream was as familiar to me as the humid Florida air.

“How did you make out while I was gone?” I asked.

“It’s never the same without you,” he replied.

I dipped the razor in the basin of water and carefully shaved along his jawline and under his chin. “It’s good to be back. But it was an interesting time away. I learned a lot.” I paused a few seconds, concentrating on my task, then rinsed the razor and tapped it a few times on the edge of the basin before I continued. “We need to have a talk, Dad.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and I looked into his eyes. They narrowed at me with concern.

Or was it fear that I saw?

Before speaking another word, I finished the shave and patted his face dry with a soft towel. He was quiet the entire time.

After I put away the shaving supplies, I sat back down. “What I want to talk to you about is pretty important,” I finally said. “But first, there’s something you need to know. I wasn’t honest with you last week. I told you that I was going to London for a conference, but that was a lie.”

“A lie?”

“Yes. I didn’t go to London. I went to Italy.”

His mouth clamped shut, and his eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Why?”

“Because Anton Clark passed away,” I explained. “He had a heart attack, and he died.”

My father’s face reddened, and he blinked a few times. “Anton Clark . . . ?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Dad . . . please. You know who he is. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”

He seemed at a loss for words, so I paused and tried again.