Chapter 9: Say It, Dad

Brannigan Hardware opened at seven, and by 7:20 there were nine customers in it.

I saw them from the door.

A man buying a snow shovel.

Two women arguing over paint chips.

A contractor with a basket of screws, and a boy with his grandfather at the key machine.

My father stood behind the front counter in his company vest with a pencil behind his ear.

He saw me and smiled, big and easy, for the room.

"There she is. My girl. You hear that, folks? My daughter's a nurse."

"Dad," I said.

"Kiddo, you're early. Coffee's in the back."

I walked straight up to the counter and set a photocopy on it.

It was the birth certificate, with the seal pressed through the paper.

I'd made it on Quinn's printer at six that morning.

My father glanced down.

The smile stayed on his face for a moment.

"What's this?"

"I think you know."

"I think you're tired." He laughed and tried to slide the paper toward himself. "Go sit down, Imo."

I put my hand flat on it.

"Is she your daughter?"

The man with the snow shovel turned his head.

One of the women stopped talking mid-word.

"Who," my father said.

"Roz."

"Rosalind is my niece. My brother's girl. You know that."

"Her father's name is on this paper, Dad. It's yours."

"That's a mistake. Those old hospital things are full of mistakes."

"It has a seal."

"Imogen." His voice dropped, and the heartiness drained out of it. "Not here."

"You didn't mind the lake house."

"Lower your voice."

"You didn't mind Sunday dinner, with two strangers at your table, telling me you were dying."