Chapter 9: St. Agnes

"Don't," I said, and walked past her.

"I only want to talk," Delphine said.

"You've had five years."

"I didn't know where you were."

I stopped with my hand on the car door.

"Dirk did," she said.

"He has known where your father lives since the day you left."

"He drives by every spring, and he sits in the car and watches the house."

"Then you should have your husband see a doctor," I said.

I put Angelo in the back seat and buckled him in.

Delphine looked at his small face through the window, and her mouth went tight.

"He has your eyes," she said.

"He has his father's," I said, and shut the door.

St. Agnes Hospice was a low brick building on the east side with a garden out front and a bench with a plaque.

The guard walked ahead of us down the corridor and stopped outside Room 14.

Inside, the blinds were half closed, and a small man lay propped on three pillows under a quilt I had given him.

My father had always been big.

Now there was a sharp ridge of collarbone above the blanket and a plastic tube under his nose.

His eyes opened when I came in.

"Pamela-bean," he said.

I crossed the room and took his hand.

It weighed almost nothing.

"I'm here, Dad."

"You brought him."

"I did."

I lifted Angelo onto the edge of the bed, and Angelo solemnly held up the dinosaur.

"This is Rex," he said.

"He's brave. You can have him."

My father's face crumpled and smoothed over and crumpled again.

"I'll take good care of him," he said.

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