Dad.
My finger hovered over it.
I remembered Chicago.
The briefcase.
The white roses.
The silver tea set.
I’m sorry. I’m in London.
I remembered Raymond holding me in the hospice corridor.
Then I remembered one message from six days earlier.
Is she healthy?
Are you?
I pressed call.
It rang once.
“Simone?”
My father’s voice sounded cautious.
Almost afraid I might disappear.
“Dad,” I said.
My voice was strangely steady.
“Come get me.”
He asked no questions.
Not why.
Not where Roland was.
Not whether I had argued with my husband.
There was one second of silence.
Then:
“Is the baby safe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sending Raymond. Thirty minutes. Don’t lift anything heavy. You’re six days postpartum. Let Raymond carry everything.”
I couldn’t speak.
He knew exactly how many days it had been.
“Simone?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for calling me.”
