Then ask Dad one more time.
Go home.
See them.
Stop waiting for some imaginary year when returning would finally become easier.
The chair had been shipped three days before the accident.
Dad never knew it was coming.
I looked at Mom.
“Then why did you tell me to throw it away?”
Her face crumpled.
“Because he was supposed to sit in it.”
Neither of us spoke.
The delivery label was still attached to the torn cardboard.
Below the shipping information was a contact number.
Hawaii.
I reached for my phone.
“Annie.”
“Someone there thinks Dad just got his chair back.”
Her eyes moved toward the number.
I dialed.
It rang four times before an older woman answered.
“Hello?”
I stared at Dad’s name carved beneath the blue seat.
“My name is Annie.” My voice nearly failed me. “I’m Gilbert’s daughter.”
There was a long silence.
Then the woman whispered, “Gilbert had a daughter?”
