Lucy puts the biscuits on the table. “Your favourites.” Pink wafers. I almost say, Since when? For a second, I can feel the shape of it, the easy little joke. She would roll her eyes. I would eat one anyway.
“P—” She waits. I press my lips together.
“Pink,” she says. “They didn’t have the chocolate ones.”
I nod. She hasn’t taken her coat off. One button is caught in the wrong hole, pulling the collar crooked. I want to straighten it. My right hand lies beside my cup, fingers tucked into themselves. Upstairs, Helen opens the linen cupboard.
Lucy sits. “How are you feeling?”
I lift my left thumb. She smiles, and I see it then: the puffiness beneath her eyes, the place beside her nose rubbed raw. I lower my hand. “Lu.”
“Good. That’s good.” She picks up the biscuits again, looking for the opening. I watch her tear the packet along the wrong edge. Two wafers fall out. She catches one against her coat. The other breaks on the floor. “Shit. Sorry.”
She bends down. I can see the pale line of her scalp. When she was little, she would stand between my knees while I tried to put her hair up. She complained I pulled too hard, then complained when Helen did it instead. She stays bent over longer than she needs to.
“Lu.”
“Just getting the crumbs.” She sits up with the broken biscuit in her palm. I push the little bin towards her with my foot. “Thanks.” Her voice catches.
I lean forward. She looks away. Please look at me. The clock above the fridge ticks. Helen drags the washing basket across the landing. I put my hand over Lucy’s wrist. She pats it. “I’m okay, Dad.” No, you’re not. I know when you’re not. “No.” She turns her wrist beneath my hand and squeezes my fingers. “Don’t worry.” Then she lets go.
I reach for the notebook. It catches beneath the fruit bowl, and an apple rolls onto the table. Lucy catches that too. “Here.” She frees the notebook, opens it, uncaps the pen. I stare at the blank page. Before the stroke, she used to steal my pens. There would be three in her handbag, four in her car, none beside the phone when I needed one. Now she places one carefully between my fingers. I want to throw it.
Instead, I press its tip against the paper. A line. Another. Too hard. The page tears. Lucy’s hand moves towards mine, then stops. “It’s okay.”
I shut my eyes. Her chair scrapes. No. Don’t go. I catch the edge of her sleeve.
“I’m just getting you a tissue.”
I hadn’t noticed my mouth. She holds the box out. I take one and wipe my chin, keeping my eyes on the table. Neither of us says anything. Then she sits again.
“Dad.”
I look up. Her face crumples so quickly I feel it in my chest.
“Tom’s left.”
My fingers tighten around the wet tissue.
“He packed on Thursday. I came home and his drawers were open.” She rubs beneath her nose. “Stupid thing to remember.”
I shake my head.
I want his name. I want something sharp enough to put after it. Nothing. Lucy pulls at a loose thread in her cuff. “I didn’t know where to go.” Here. Here, love. The word won’t come.
She wipes her cheeks angrily. “I wasn’t going to tell you. Not yet. Mum said you’ve only just started sleeping properly, and I thought—” She looks at my hand. I pull it into my lap. She sees.
“Oh, Dad. No.”
I stare at the dent his coffee cup left in our table last Christmas. I had told him to use a coaster. Lucy had called me fussy. “I didn’t mean that.” I know. I know what you meant. That makes it worse.
She begins to cry without covering her face. The way she did as a child, when she still expected me to know what happened next. I move my chair. It barely shifts. I try again, dragging one leg against the tiles. Lucy stands to help. I shake my head.
“Dad—” I slap the seat beside me. Too loud. She flinches. I turn my palm upwards. Please. She sits. For a moment we are awkward together, her shoulder against my stiff arm. Then I reach across and take her hand. Her fingers close around mine.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I shake my head. She leans closer. I lift our hands and press hers against my cheek. Her skin is cold. I hold it there until she stops trying to apologise. Then her forehead is against my shoulder. My shirt grows warm and damp. I rest my face in her hair. There is something I used to say when she woke frightened. I search for it, but she grips my shirt, and I stay.
I can feel her trying to make the crying quiet. Each time she catches her breath, her whole back tightens. I spread my hand against it. She gives up then, and I hold on to her jumper. Helen stops in the doorway. I meet her eyes over our daughter’s head. She nods and leaves us. Lucy breathes in, shakily, and lets it out against my chest. I wait for the next breath with her.