Page 5 of Distant Shores (Stapled Magnolias #2)

He patted the small box of crayons in the breast pocket of his linen shirt as if assuring himself they were there.

It was so him that I could almost fool myself into believing it was just a normal evening.

That he was the same eccentric guy with tangled hair, loud opinions, and razor-sharp wit, ready to call it a night soon so he could get up early to teach art at the local high school.

He patted the carton again, and I smiled as I worked the smudges off his fingertips. He used to carry a carton of cigarettes there, he’d once told me, but gave it up when I was born, replacing them with the crayons.

I’d gotten most of the smudges off before he jerked his hand out of my grip and picked up his fork.

I grabbed some snacks I’d stashed in the closet and ate quietly beside him.

When he was done, I subtly guided him to the bathroom for his shower, pointing out where the towels were and which products he might enjoy.

Most days, he was capable of showering on his own, but on all days he hated being coddled, no matter how lucid he was, so I kept it brief.

Before he closed the door, he looked at me for a long moment, as if he knew there was something he needed to examine more closely.

I held my breath, but a few moments later, he abandoned the search with a barely there shrug. Or it abandoned him, maybe.

It was impossible to tell.

I didn’t go far, leaving the bedroom door open as I sank back onto the couch. Even though the shower was oversized and outfitted with everything needed for maximum safety, I stayed alert and within shouting distance for all of his showers.

His hair was tangled and soaking wet when he stepped back into the living room a few minutes later, dripping onto his fresh T-shirt, which was on backwards.

It wasn’t worth an argument.

“So, how was your art today?” I asked as he settled onto the couch beside me. Hopefully it wasn’t too late in the day to get him to recap his morning and afternoon.

“Mediocre,” he said, flicking his gaze to me. “Thanks for asking, Dancing Queen.”

My heart squeezed at the nickname, irritating the ache that was permanently there these days. He hadn’t called me that in… I had no idea how long.

I stared at him as he scooped up the remote and flicked the channel to General Hospital , oblivious to the little moment I was having, and something in me panicked, desperate to grasp the moment of clarity, to extend it. I reached for his free hand, and he let me take it, the contact like a balm.

Plastering on the biggest smile I could, I squeezed his hand gently. “I was thinking we could go to the beach tomorrow.”

He looked at our clasped hands, then up at me, brow furrowed. Our gazes held for several long, thick seconds before he frowned deeply, etching deep lines into his face. “Are we on vacation?”

“Feels like it sometimes.” I wasn’t even sure if that was a lie. What did you call it when you weren’t home, but you weren’t on vacation either?

The utter loss and confusion written in his features cut me more sharply than complete vacancy ever had. He wasn’t lost in his own world, but he wasn’t here either .

Lucidity was the enemy sometimes, too, however fleeting.

“Want to tell me about the paintings?” I tried again. He tapped the remote on his knee.

“Dad?”

The tempo of the taps increased before he jerked his head toward me, and I bit my tongue, dread dropping like a brick in my stomach.

I’d messed up. Pushed too hard.

He released my hand and pointed the remote at me, all softness gone from his gaze as he rasped, “And just who the fuck are you?”

I wanted to scream abuse at the universe for doing this to him. To us.

Rolling my lips together slowly, I forced a calm smile. “I’m Ireland.”

It was like watching the clouds part on a darkening evening. The anger went as quickly as it had come, but there wasn’t sunlight left behind.

Just… the collapse of a day.

I was lucky in that, at least. His episodes of aggression and agitation, so far, had been brief.

“Ireland,” he repeated, testing the word.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes.”

He pushed his damp, graying hair behind his ear the exact same way I just had. “Always been my dream to go there.”

I swallowed hard, but it didn’t help the crack in my voice. “Yeah?”

He was vacant as he turned back to the TV, leaving me with the ghost of his abandoned dreams.

After the night nurse came by with his evening meds, I got Dad’s teeth brushed and tucked him into bed without issue .

I wanted to lean over and kiss him but second-guessed it, not knowing if it was the right thing, especially when I wasn’t sure he knew who I was.

For the next ten minutes, I glared at the couch.

It hadn’t appealed the first night and did even less so almost three months later.

Having someone to talk to after such an emotional, up-and-down day would’ve been great.

A real bed would’ve been even better.

I pulled out my phone and silently groaned at the time.

It was only 8:15 p.m., and I had no more alarms set for the day. Nowhere to be. Nowhere to go.

I couldn’t stomach lying on that couch and wallowing in leftover feelings, so I slipped on my shoes and eased out of the apartment, keeping my head down as I went.

The sun had set over an hour ago, so there wasn’t much to see outside the windows that lined the dim hallway, anyway.

I took the stairs down to the first floor, the burn in my thighs from the stairs a much better pain.

My stomach growled as I breezed by the cafeteria, but I ignored it, buzzing myself into the life skills room.

Zinnia House had a lot of common spaces on the first floor that all residents of Live Oak could use. There was a cinema room, a large rec room, multiple therapy suites, a gym, and this room, the life skills room.

I walked straight to the Cadillac that was parked in the middle of the room. It had looked great in that brochure but was even better in person.

I opened the door softly, slid inside, and took a deep breath. It even had that new car smell.

I buckled my seat belt before leaning back against the leather seat, thinking back to the first time I’d retreated into here. It felt like the end of the world then, but little did I know that I’d claim this spot as my safe space. I might not have had my own bed or my own life, but I had this.

An engineless Cadillac.

During the weekday, the luxury sedan was a rehab option for residents relearning to enter and exit a car safely, especially after strokes.

Most nights, it got me.

I adjusted the rearview mirror as if I was going somewhere and then clicked the largest button on the console touch screen.

A beam of light shot from the projector mounted on the roof onto the huge screen in front of the car as I selected my destination.

One more click, and soft music streamed in from the car’s radio.

The projector’s image flickered before the scene settled, and I collapsed back into the seat and prepared for a long ride through winding roads.

In the driver’s seat of a car to nowhere, I chased a faraway sunset over distant shores.