“Gilbert had a daughter?”
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The woman gave a shaky laugh.
“He never told us.”
“He didn’t tell me about you either.”
That quieted both of us.
Her name was Ruth. She had been fifteen when Dad arrived at the foster home.
“He never told us.”
She asked about him carefully.
“Did he still cheat at cards?”
“Yes.”
“Did he still hate papaya?”
Apparently he’d lied to me about liking it.
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“Did he whistle when he was nervous?”
“Did he still cheat at cards?”
I looked at Mom.
She nodded.
“Every time.”
Ruth laughed again.
These weren’t stories about a secret version of my father.
They were my father.
These weren’t stories about a secret version of my father.
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“Why did you keep his chair?” I asked.
“Because it was Gilbert’s.”
“For fifty years?”
“People used it.”
She sounded surprised I thought otherwise.
“Kids sat in it. Somebody broke its leg once. We fixed it. But whenever anyone wanted to throw it out, Mom said, ‘No. That’s Gilbert’s chair.'”
“Because it was Gilbert’s.”
I touched the worn blue backrest.
“Dad thought he’d stayed away too long.”
“Too long for what?”
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“To come back.”
Ruth was silent.
