Page 10 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)

First, it’s no alcohol. Now it’s Looney Tunes behavior over a pie for a birthday that’s passed. It feels as if I’m in The Twilight Zone . Or a victim of one of those prank shows.

“Dad, what’s going on?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled against his lips in thought. But he doesn’t get long to ponder before my mom’s voice cuts through the house again, sharp and urgent.

“Daniel!”

“Please play along. Go get what she needs, and I promise I’ll explain everything when you get home.”

No. Not good enough.

A morning at the gym did nothing to shake the frustration boiling inside me. I don’t want to add another thing to my emotional plate—and secrets from my parents might be the thing that finally tips me over.

“Dad, please. What is happening? I’m not a little kid. You guys have been acting weird since I got into town. I deserve to know what the hell is going on.”

Dad stands from his chair, walking over to me with remorse in his gaze. I stand with him, and he pulls me in for a hug. I rest my cheek over his chest, his heartbeat still strong as it thumps in my ear.

He plants a soft kiss into my hair. “Tia, trust me. Please, just get the things on the list and we’ll talk.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

Mom buzzes like a little worker bee, shooing me out of the kitchen with flour dusting her cheeks and apple skins overflowing in a bowl on the counter. Reluctantly, I got everything on her list—including the Honeycrisps that were luckily on sale. That made Mom happy.

I said I’d help in the kitchen because it’s what a good daughter does. And I love cooking with my mom. But right now? I’d trade a dozen apple pies for a straight answer from my dad.

With my mom distracted and rolling out pie crust dough, I catch my dad in the corner of my eye, waving me down to meet him in the garage.

He walks through the door, and I follow shortly behind.

I don’t know why this is so cryptic—and why it feels like I’m lying.

I just want to get to the bottom of this.

Dad stands at the deep freezer on the far side of the two-car garage. My heart beats in an erratic rhythm, unsure and anxious, as I step up to the white chest.

“Is there a body or something in there?” I attempt a joke, only getting a small curve of a smile from my dad. The pained expression is back, and it breaks something inside me. The pinch in his eyebrows. The thinning of his lips.

He finally opens the freezer, showing me the contents inside. My mouth parts on a gasp, equal parts shock and disbelief.

Apple pies. Dozens of them.

“Dad …” I whisper, digging through the pile of pies neatly stacked atop one another. Each is tightly bound in clear plastic wrap, the bold strokes of a black marker scrawling dates that stretch back nearly two months.

I have a pretty good idea why all these pies are here, but it doesn’t stop me from tossing out a Hail Mary, hoping I’m wrong.

“Are you and Mom, like ... starting a pie business or something?”

Stupid. A pie business. Jesus.

My dad gives a soft shake of his head, a quiet “ no” on his lips. He swallows hard, working past the lump in his throat, and I notice for the first time how tired he looks—his green eyes dull, shadows resting heavy beneath them. I hadn’t realized just how worn down he’s become.

“Tia,” Dad murmurs, placing his hand in mine. He can’t look at me just yet, his eyes swimming with what looks like fear and immense trepidation. I squeeze his hand tighter in mine, tugging on it and will him to look at me.

“Just say it. I can handle it.”

I think. I hope.

“It’s Alzheimer’s, sweetheart. Early on-set. I’m so sorry.”

All I can do is stare down into the freezer, serving as a painful reminder of this devastating disease that has my mom stuck in some sick time loop of hell.

She thinks today is his birthday, which means every pie sitting at the bottom of this freezer …

“When was she diagnosed?” I close the lid of the freezer, unable to look at it anymore.

“I’ve had concerns going back almost six months. But the official diagnosis was just a few months ago, at the end of summer.”

Six months? End of summer? While I was home?

I fight back the burn of tears pricking behind my eyes. As I pace the garage, I sense my father’s gaze on me. The emotions stirring within me fight against each other.

It’s anger versus sadness, then guilt and devastating grief join the battle. My thumbnail becomes raw and agitated from my incessant gnawing—a god-awful habit I formed since childhood for when I get anxious.

The air thickens too fast, like it’s trying to strangle the breath from my lungs. Something ugly barrels through me in sharp, crashing waves—and panic follows close behind. I’m on the brink of completely losing it, and I need air. Now.

I stop pacing, barely holding myself together before my dad pulls me into his arms. His embrace is steady, radiating warmth and strength, like he’s trying to carry what I can’t.

My breath stutters in broken bursts, the overpowering smell of gasoline and rubber pressing in until my stomach turns and the world spins backwards.

With the fear of passing out, I focus on my dad’s scent, burying my nose into his arm as he holds me. Squeezing my eyes shut, my mind betrays me, grappling me with images of my mom manic in the kitchen.

Wild eyes, messy hair, and a dying brain.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Dad?” I’m hurt by his conscious choice to keep this from me. I was home most of summer, selfishly living my life and missed all the signs. I could’ve helped somehow. Maybe I could’ve seen it earlier and worked with my dad to help fix it. I could’ve?—

“Stop doing that to yourself, honey,” my dad interrupts my self-loathing thoughts as if I were saying them out loud. “I didn’t want to tell you yet because I was still coming to terms with it myself.”

My battered heart shatters a little more at his admission, and I let my dad hold me as we breathe together.

“How often is she making these pies? Why does she keep replaying your birthday?”

“I was actually on the phone with her doctor before you came into my office earlier. And the truth is, Alzheimer’s is an unforgiving neurological disease.

There’s not really a pattern for what triggers my birthday—at least one I’ve observed.

I know that disrupting her routine can set her off, and those days can be really hard. ”

I remain in my dad’s arms, nodding like I understand what he’s talking about, but I don’t really.

I have a thousand questions I want to ask, burning through my mind in cluttered chaos.

Dad strokes my back softly, exactly how he did when I was little to placate me when something was deeply upsetting.

“The doctor told me to play along with the birthday thing to prevent any sort of breakdown. She was making almost two pies a week. After a month, I couldn’t eat any more of them.

” We both let out a hollow laugh at that.

“I didn’t have the heart to toss them out.

So, I started freezing them. I’m good on birthday pie for a while. ”

I smile against his arm, holding him tighter to me, grieving with him over the slow decline of my mom’s health.

He’s had to do this all alone. He shouldn’t have to do this by himself.

My mom deserves for her family to be whole again.

Because once upon a time, we weren’t broken.

We were happy. The four of us. And I can’t help that my mind takes me back to her.

The missing piece to our fractured puzzle.

The one person I wish I could talk to right now, but can’t have.

I have to fix this.

“We have her on new medication to help alleviate symptoms, but we have good and bad days, sweetheart.”

“And today is a bad day?” I look up at him with misty eyes.

His somber face tells me everything I need to know.

It’s not a good day.