He was holding a white bakery box, tied with a blue string, containing the twelve-dollar strawberry shortcake he bought for my birthday every year. The box had the name of the bakery on the lid, stamped in faded blue ink, and he had carried it carefully so the cream would not slide against the cardboard.
He stopped in the middle of the kitchen, his heavy boots coming to a halt on the linoleum.
He did not look at Derek or Linda first. His eyes locked directly onto my chin, where the heavy foundation had begun to cake under the warm lights.
“Happy birthday, Emily,” my father said, his voice low and deliberate.
“Thank you, Dad,” I said, stepping back into the shadow of the refrigerator.
My father did not move, his eyes tracking the way I held my hands close to my chest, my fingers buried deep in the yellow wool of my sweater cuffs. He had noticed the bruises on my wrists during his visit three weeks ago, though I had lied and told him I caught them on the heavy garden gate while weeding. I thought I had successfully hidden them, but he had stayed quiet, his eyes lingering on my sleeves.
“You look pale,” my father said, his voice dropping an octave.
“It is just the morning light,” I said, my voice trailing off.
Linda adjusted her gold necklace, her fingers moving in rapid, jerky circles. “Richard, look at the beautiful shortcake you brought. Let me get some plates from the cupboard so we can all have a slice before it gets warm.”
“The blue paper plates are in the pantry,” I said, pointing toward the wooden door.
My father did not look at Linda. He stood in the center of our kitchen, his face completely blank, his gaze remaining on the side of my face where the makeup was thickest.
“Put the cake on the counter, Richard,” Derek said, his voice carrying that familiar, easy warmth he used when neighbors were nearby. “Emily has been waiting for it all morning.”
My father slowly set the white bakery box down on the formica counter, right next to the dry pear tart Linda had brought.
He reached down to his left wrist, where his old silver watch sat on its worn leather strap. The watch was valued at one hundred fifty dollars, a gift from his own father forty years ago, and the gold clasp on the strap had been loose for as long as I could remember. It was a simple piece of jewelry, but it was the only valuable thing he owned, and he treated it with a quiet sort of reverence. Whenever he was thinking deeply, he would wind it with two fingers, but today he did not wind it.
