Page 172 of The Housekeeper

Chapter Sixty-seven

The final phonecall came ten days later.

It was just after eleven o’clock, and Harrison and I were getting ready for bed. Yes, we were back to sleeping in the same bed, although we had yet to make love. Harrison hadn’t tried to do more than just hold me, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure what I would do if he did.

My feelings for him were all over the map: I hated him; I loved him; I wanted him gone; I wanted him inside me; he was a liar and a cheat; he was the father of my children.

It was that fact that gave me the most pause.

Did I really want to deprive my children of the father they loved? A father who, despite his many faults, truly loved them, and despite his grumblings, had always been there for them?

Unlikemyfather.

Did my father love me? I wondered constantly. Had heeverloved me?

Try as I might, and I’ve racked my brain trying to recall a single instance when he might have uttered those words, I’m forced to admit that I can’t remember any. “Use your words,” I used to tell my children. My father used a lot of words. “I love you” was simply not a part of his vocabulary.

Had I ever told my father that I lovedhim? Maybe once, long ago, probably expecting—hoping—I’d hear it back.DidI love him? Tracy had asked me that, and I hadn’t been able to come up with a response that satisfied either of us. Certainly, Iwantedto love my father. More likely, I felt anobligationto love him. He’d given me life after all, and had been a fierce presence in that life for more than forty years. The least I owed him, now that he was reduced to a mere shadow of his former self, was my loyalty. Whether I loved him or not, whether he lovedmeor not, I considered it my duty to protect him.

“Shit,” I muttered when the phone rang that night. “Here we go again.”

It had been over a week since my father’s last call, over a week since my last “surprise” visit to his home.

“You don’t have to answer it,” Harrison said, although we both knew that option was out of the question.

I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “Dad?”

“Help me!” my father cried.

“Oh, God. What’s happening?”

“You have to help me.”

“Where’s Elyse?”

“She was so angry. She…she threatened…”

“She threatened you? Please, Dad. Call nine-one-one!”

“No! Not the police!”

“Dad, listen to me…”

“You have to come over. I’m begging you!”

“Okay. Okay,” I told him. “I’ll be right there.”

“Hurry!”

“You can’t be serious,” Harrison said as I dropped the phone and ran to the closet. “You can’t actually be thinking of going over there at this hour.”

“I have to. He’s desperate.”

“Then call the police.”

“And say what?” I asked, pulling a pair of jeans over my nightshirt.

“Anything!” Harrison responded.