I’ve stopped listening because I can’t focus on anything other than the fact that Dad is gone. I picture him easily as he is—vibrant in my mind, larger than life—and I can’t attach the idea of him dead, gone forever, to that person. A painful fluttering builds in my chest. “Did I get to say goodbye? Hug him one last time? Did I do anything to help him?” My body shakes. No matter how hard I try to scrape off the layer of gunk that clings to my brain, I remember nothing. The blankness is a giant mouth that steals everything from me.

“You did all of that, Claire,” Mom says. “He said he was so very proud of you and that only you could have survived and thrived the way you have. He loved you so very much, sweet—”

I inhale sharply, the idea that he’s gone fresh pain.

“Claire,” she says. “You were his world. He loved you and he loved every minute he spent with you.”

We stand there among everyone, some staring at me in pity, others shifting uncomfortably in their seats, but mostly the room is silent, save for the scribbling of pen on paper that comes from the man at my side. I rub at my arms; a coldness pricks at my bones and I shiver. I will forget. I will have to relive this all over again. I clutch at my chest. Dad is my rock, always there to pick me up when I fall, to protect me when I need it. And now he is gone. My body sags. “How am I going to remember?”

Ruth takes the notebook from Tate, touches the one gripped in my hands, and gives me a sad smile. “The way you always have. But with all of our help too.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Saturday, February 2

I wake up screaming from a dream I can’t remember but that has left me in a cold sweat, and I kick the covers off, needing space, air, anything but this claustrophobic feeling that presses against me. Immediately, I see the whiteboard. Dad died of a heart attack on September 21. All that comes out is a broken whimper. I read the journal, which describes my seizure and includes the fact that Dad died of a heart attack. It takes a while for everything to sink in but eventually it does, and the pain ebbs. Today is Saturday, February 2, and I’ve been waking up the exact same way for four months now.

An ache unfolds across my skull, and I rise unsteadily to my feet. It’s past nine in the morning—late for me to be starting my day but it doesn’t matter. Dad is dead. I didn’t have to read it because I feel the loss of him in the darkness that hovers at the edges of my vision, shrouds my heart.