Page 63 of Poison Wood

“The doctor said we need to make changes to his diet,” Debby says to me.

It takes more effort than it should not to comment on the slice of white bread.

“So, Dad,” I say. I shut my eyes a moment, then open them. “Can you tell me what happened with ...?” I point to his chest.

He pauses mid-bite. “Let’s don’t rehash all that.”

“It was awful,” Debby says at the same time.

I look to Debby.

She reaches over and touches his hand. “He’d been showing symptoms a few days before, but we didn’t think ...” Her voice trails off a moment. “We just thought it was indigestion, that’s all.” She takes a breath. “So he goes down to get the mail and ...” She rubs her eyes. “And he didn’t come back.” Her voice starts to shake. “And I drove down there after a few minutes because something didn’t seem right, and then I got down there, and he was ... he was on the ground, and I screamed, and I called 911, but I think I could have gotten him to the hospital faster if I’d just gotten him in Pearl Ann.”

My dad grabs her shaking hand and squeezes it.

“You did exactly what you should have done,” he says.

“He’s right, Debby,” I say, feeling my eyes sting. “Thank you.”

She meets my gaze, and I feel the first tear slipping. I haven’t cried since getting the news my father almost died, not even when I saw him in the hospital. But there’s something about knowing he is going to be okay, something about sitting here having a normal moment, that lifts the dam holding my tears in place. Like I don’t have to be strong anymore.

“Oh, sugar,” Debby says. She gets up and returns with a tissue.

I take it from her.

“Come on now,” my father says. “None of that.”

He goes back to eating, and Debby glances at him, then at me and rolls her eyes. “You know what tears do to your father.”

I smile and somehow manage to choke down the zucchini noodles as my father and Debby talk about cold-weather prep at the barn and ideas for keeping the geese out of their yard.

After dinner I help Debby clean the dishes as my father goes to their room.

“He’s gonna be okay,” she says, giving me a hug.

And I let her hug me. “Thank you,” I tell her again.

“You’re welcome.”

On my way back to the stairs, I stop by the study door. Debby’s words replay in my head, and when they do, something sharp feels as if it’s wedged in my ribs. Not my father’s heart attack, but the timing of it. As he was checking the mail.

The study is dark when I slip in and shut the door behind me. I turn on the light and go to the desk. The pile of mail I brought in from my father’s truck sits where I left it.

I sift through it. Bills, a padded envelope, grocery store mailers, and what looks like an invitation to a cotillion party. I pause and look back at the padded envelope. I pull it out from the pile, and when I read the handwritten label, a shot of adrenaline races through my veins. It’s addressed to me but to this address. My high school address.

Then I examine the postmark, and the adrenaline now feels like a blowtorch. Miami, Florida. But those things don’t affect my pulse as much as the top of the envelope.

It’s ripped open. And the envelope is empty.

I shut my eyes a moment, work to get my breathing regulated. Kat’s words earlier about my father start to worm their way back into my head. Trust issues.

I flip the envelope back over and look at the scrawledRin Rita, and something finally clicks into place.

Clutching the envelope, I race up the back stairs to the journals scattered around my bed.

I fumble through them until I find the one I’m looking for. I hold it up and compare it to the label on the envelope. My breath comes in short bursts as I flip the journal closed and study the name on the outside. I know which journal was Heather’s now.

I reread each one until my eyes blur. Then I start searching online for a name that’s been just on the edge of my thoughts. I type it in and add the wordsPoison Wood, and when the article comes up, I smack the bed with my hand.