“I’m glad you’re here,” Gertie is saying. “It feels like forever since we last saw you.”
“Just a little more than a year.”
“You had that premiere, and you came to visit us for a minute.”
“A day.”
“It felt like a minute.” She sighs, watching as I walk over to the grand piano in a corner of the room. “Nobody plays that now.”
I have a sudden memory of a famous actress playing the instrument at one of my father’s parties and my nostalgia intensifies. “How bad is he?” My voice is strained. My father was diagnosed with cancer. For a year, he underwent the treatments without telling me anything about it.
Days ago, after I’d spoken to Natalia and Gertie, he confessed everything to me, leaving me heartbroken for a whole number of reasons—the pain he’s going through and the knowledge that he waited so long to confide in me. I’m also afraid, because I don’t want to lose him.
“He was very sick for a while, what with the chemo and all.” Gertie sniffs. “He’s been better these past few weeks. Stronger. He can’t wait to see you.”
“And I can’t wait to see him.” I imagine the physical toll this sickness would have taken on him, and a cold hand of fear grips my stomach, but I steel myself. No matter what, I’m determined to be strong. “Where is he?”
“The patio. He likes to sit out there these days.”
Outside, there’s a faint breeze stirring the leaves of a few potted plants that line the patio. My father is lying on a recliner, his body covered by a thick blanket. Beside him, there’s a recent bestselling novel with an old tasseled bookmark sticking out of the pages. His eyes are closed, so he can’t see me, but I see him. I see his drawn face and his thin hair. I see the hollows that were once his cheeks and I choke back a sob.
His eyes flutter open and come alive when they land on me. His face brightens, and he starts to rise from the recliner.
“Dad!” I rush over to him, “You don’t have to get up.”
He ignores me and pushes his blanket away, rising to his feet with some effort. “Nonsense.” His voice is firm, and he pulls me into his arms for a hug. “As if I would lie here like an invalid instead of giving my princess a proper welcome.”
He’s thinner than I remember, and even his voice has changed. How did I never notice on the phone that his commanding baritone had given way to something weaker and more straine
d? My eyes water, and I relax into the warm comfort of his hug. There’s a faint odor of medications, but I don’t care. “I’ve missed you, Dad.”
“Missed you too, sweet-pea.” He cradles my face in his hands. “You look good.” There’s a note of approval and satisfaction in his voice. “How was your flight?”
I shrug. “Smooth.”
He nods, then glances at the recliner with distaste. “Let’s go inside. We can sit in my study and drink tea while you tell me everything that’s been going on. This old man has no idea what’s happening outside this apartment.”
“You’re not old,” I protest, taking his arm so he can lean on me as we walk. It hurts to see how fragile he is. He’s only sixty-five and has always looked young for his age. Now, he looks at least ten years older.
The study is warm, cozy, and still furnished with the thick carpet, dark mahogany bookshelves, solid desk, and the plush settee where, as a teenager, I’d often curled up to read. Battling another wave of longing for days gone by, I wait until my dad settles into his favorite stuffed-leather winged armchair, then I curl up on a corner of the settee. Gertie appears with tea, green for my father, and Earl Grey with a splash of lemon for me.
“I read somewhere that you were planning to film an action flick in Spain,” my father says, raising his cup to his lips. There’s no disapproval in his voice, but I’ve always known, somehow, that he’s not very impressed with the movies I’ve done in the last seven years. Movies that have done little to showcase my dramatic talent but have made my face and name recognizable everywhere in the world.
“I pulled out of that project.” I sip my tea and give him a smile. “I’ve been working too hard…I needed some time off.”
His face tells me he’s not buying the lie. “Liz, I don’t want you to put your work on hold because of me.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell me you were sick?” Dropping my mask, I let him see the hurt I’ve been hiding. “Because you think my work is more important to me than you are?”
He looks away.
“Dad…”
“I thought I could beat it.” He shrugs, and there’s a bitter note in his voice. “I wanted to tell you good news. That I’d been sick, and I wasn’t anymore.”
“But you aren’t.” My voice rises. “The treatment…”
He shakes his head. “I’m still sick, Liz. There’ll be a second course of treatment.”