Chapter 8: The Call That Couldn't Wait
Luke was out of his chair before Gabrielle finished the sentence.
He didn't shout.
He didn't slam anything.
He walked to the far end of the kitchen, stood with his back to us for a moment, and then turned around.
"He's dying," Luke said.
"And you knew.
For six months."
Gabrielle's hands were flat on the table.
"I didn't know how to tell you."
"You didn't know how to tell me." He said it slowly, like he was testing the weight of each word.
"My father is sick.
He called this house and asked you to tell me.
And you didn't know how."
"I was scared of what would happen if you—"
"Stop." He held up his hand.
"I don't want to hear about what you were scared of.
Not right now." He picked up his phone from the counter.
"I need his number.
The one he called from.
Do you have it?"
Gabrielle hesitated for only a second.
Then she got up, went to the drawer beside the refrigerator, and pulled out a small notepad.
She tore off the top page and held it out to him.
He took it without looking at her and walked out of the kitchen.
Gabrielle sat back down.
She didn't look at me.
She looked at the table.
"I know," she said quietly.
"I know what I did."
"Do you?" I said.
She looked up.
"You didn't just hide a letter," I said.
"You didn't just make me sleep outside.
You took time from him.
Time he can't get back now.
Time that might be almost gone." I stopped.
"That's not something an apology fixes, Gabrielle.
I want you to understand that clearly."
Her eyes filled.
She didn't let the tears fall.
"I understand," she said.
From the back hallway, we could hear Luke's voice.
Low, careful, the way it had been when he first called.
But different now.
Faster.
More urgent.
We sat in silence and listened to the sound of him talking to his father.
It went on for a long time.
When he came back into the kitchen, his eyes were red.
He sat down at the table and put his phone face-down.
"He's in Tucson," Luke said.
"He has a procedure scheduled for next month.
His doctor says if it goes well, he has more time than he thought." He paused.
"He wants to meet."
Neither Gabrielle nor I spoke.
"I'm going to go," Luke said.
"I'm going to fly to Tucson and meet him." He looked at Gabrielle.
"I want to do this.
I'm not asking for permission.
I'm telling you."
Gabrielle nodded.
"Okay."
"And when I get back, we're going to sit down with someone — a counselor, a therapist, whoever you want — and we're going to talk about all of this.
About what you kept from me.
About what's been happening in this house." He looked at her steadily.
"Because I love you.
And I think there's something worth saving here.
But I can't pretend the last few days didn't happen."
Gabrielle looked at him.
Something in her face broke open, quietly, like a window giving way.
"I don't want to lose you," she said.
"Then stop making decisions that push me away." His voice was not unkind.
"That's all I'm asking."
She nodded.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth for a moment.
Then Luke looked at me.
"I want you to come to Tucson," he said.
"If you're willing."
I looked at him.
"To meet Robert?"
"He asked about you," Luke said.
"He said — he said he'd always hoped you were well." He stopped.
"You don't have to.
But I think I'd like you there."
I thought about the tent in the backyard.
I thought about the document on the table.
I thought about a man standing at the back of a graduation crowd, alone, watching his son walk across a stage.
"All right," I said.
"I'll come."
Mia appeared in the kitchen doorway in her pajamas, squinting against the light.
"Is everything okay?" she said.
Luke got up and went to her.
He crouched down to her level.
"Everything's going to be okay," he said.
"Go back to bed."
She looked past him at me.
I nodded at her.
She seemed to accept that, and turned and padded back upstairs.
Luke watched her go.
Then he straightened up and looked at the kitchen — at Gabrielle, at me, at the notepad page still in his hand.
"I'm going to book the flights," he said.
He left the room.
Gabrielle and I sat across from each other in the quiet kitchen.
After a long moment, she said, "Thank you.
For telling him about the document.
For not hiding it."
"I'm not in the habit of hiding things," I said.
She absorbed that without flinching.
"I'm going to be better," she said.
"I mean it."
"I hope so," I said.
"For his sake.
May you like
For the children's sake." I paused.
"And for yours."
