Strangled. 10/25/12. Jennifer Davis.
Drowned. 6/05/10. Name unknown.
Lead poisoning. 1/19/11. Troy Bennett.
Some of the photos had pieces of colorful yarn connecting them. I once asked him why, and he told me it was because he believed their deaths to be connected in some way.
He was at it again, which meant he believed he had seen another ghost. When he got like this, I’d found it was best to leave him alone. After a sighting, he always wanted to document it while the memory was still fresh. I wouldn’t be able to pry him from that desk if I tried.
Retreating to the kitchen, I finished cooking dinner and made two plates. Putting Dad’s in the oven to keep it warm, I sat at the table alone with my book, happy to read in silence for the time being.
After I’d eaten two helpings of spaghetti, I remained at the table reading for at least another hour because the book had gripped me so thoroughly. There were only three chapters left by the time he finally emerged from his room.
His face was haggard and drawn, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual.
“Your dinner’s in the oven,” I said, giving him a quick glance before going back to my book.
He retrieved his plate and sat across from me, eating in silence. After a while, I couldn’t take the quiet any longer.
“Where did you spot this one?” I asked, dog-earing my spot and closing the book.
Pausing with the fork halfway to his mouth, he met my gaze. “Not far from the house, actually. That’s the third one in the neighborhood this month… I can’t figure out why.”
Frowning, I watched him go back to his food, head lowered. A lot of people judged my dad for what they assumed was some sort of mental disorder. However, he functioned normally in every other aspect of life, and had never given me reason to doubt his sanity. It was only when night came that he claimed to be visited by ghosts. He believed they wanted something from him, yet was never able to figure out what, exactly. So, he documented them, often going so far as to research the manners of their death, hoping for some sort of clue.
The phenomenon had begun not long after Mom died, and, at first, I figured it was just his way of coping. Over time, it had only gotten worse, becoming exhausting—wondering if he truly saw the things he said he did, worrying he might actually have something wrong with him, being angry with the people in town who whispered about him behind his back and called him crazy. Whatever was happening, my father genuinely believed he saw these ghosts.
There is so much about the world we don’t understand, my mother often said. Who are we to tell others what is true, or what they ought to believe?
I always thought she referred to things like religion, but maybe she meant convictions like my dad’s as well. She would have trusted him, so I tried my hardest to believe, too.
“I have an interview tomorrow morning,” I said, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. “It’s for a babysitting job.”
“Babysitting, huh?” he asked. “You always were good with your little cousins. What family is it?”
Hesitating for a moment, I watched his face for a reaction when I replied. “The Baldwins.”
Raising his eyebrows, he gave me a quizzical look. “I’d think a family that wealthy would have a nanny.”
I laughed. “That’s what I thought, but when I called, they still hadn’t filled the position. Maybe they lost their nanny or something. I don’t know, but it’s for the whole summer, and all I’d have to do is keep them busy during the day while the parents are at work.”
His mouth worked as he seemed to mull that over for a moment. “I suppose it sounds like a good job, but I would still prefer you spend your summer swimming, relaxing, and going to the movies… you know, kid stuff.”
Pointing toward the little basket holding our mail—mostly bills—I raised my eyebrows. “No can do, old man.”
Nodding, he took a sip of his iced tea. “I won’t argue with you. When your mind is made up about something, you prove just how much like your mother you are.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I quipped.
Reaching out to cover my hand with his, he became serious. “I meant it as one. She would be so proud of you, stepping up to take care of me even though you shouldn’t have to. It’s not your job, but you help me keep the bookstore running and the house in shape without complaint. You’re a beautiful young woman, inside and out… I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Smiling and choking back tears, I placed my free hand on top of his. “I love you, Dad.”
He kissed my hand, and then stood and collected our dirty dishes. “You cooked, so I’ll clean up. Go relax and rest up for your interview tomorrow. You’ll need the car, so make sure you get some gas money from my wallet.”
“Check,” I replied, taking up my book and retreating to my room.
Once alone inside, I sank onto the bed and kicked off my sneakers before falling back onto the pillows. Curling up beneath one of my favorite blankets, I dove back into the story. Once I had finished the final chapters, the sounds of Dad washing and drying the dishes had ceased. The house was quiet, and I knew he had either gone back to his room to continue his sketching or went to sleep.
Kneeling beside the bed, I pulled out the large trunk where I stashed my books and put the finished one
