“Because he was supposed to sit in it.”
Neither of us spoke.
The delivery label was still attached to the torn cardboard.
Below the shipping information was a contact number.
Hawaii.
I reached for my phone.
“Annie.”
“Someone there thinks Dad just got his chair back.”
Her eyes moved toward the number.
I dialed.
It rang four times before an older woman answered.
“Hello?”
I stared at Dad’s name carved beneath the blue seat.
“My name is Annie.” My voice nearly failed me. “I’m Gilbert’s daughter.”
There was a long silence.
Then the woman whispered, “Gilbert had a daughter?”
For a moment, I couldn’t answer.
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
The woman gave a shaky laugh.
“He never told us.”
“He didn’t tell me about you either.”
That silenced both of us.
Her name was Ruth. She had been fifteen when Dad arrived at the foster home.
She began asking about him carefully.
“Did he still cheat at cards?”
“Yes.”
“Did he still hate papaya?”
Apparently, he’d lied to me about liking it.
“Did he whistle when he was nervous?”
