a narrow case, which, when she opened it, revealed her father’s reading glasses. They were the same frames he’d had for years and she had a flash of him wearing them, sitting in his favorite armchair, reading one of the many biographies he’d enjoyed. If she’d interrupted him, he’d always taken his time before looking up from his book, fixing his cool blue gaze on her over the tops of the lenses. Letting her know that she had his attention only temporarily.
She put the case to one side. Next she found a handful of pens and a foolscap manila folder. A quick inspection revealed that the folder contained word puzzles her father had clipped from the newspaper. Again, she set it all to one side. As she’d predicted, her father’s transistor radio was next, the yellowed power cord wrapped neatly around it. There was only one item left, a book lying facedown. She pulled it out, turning it over. She stilled as she realized what it was.
When she was ten years old, her father had celebrated his fortieth birthday. Even though he wasn’t a very social man, she’d known it was an important occasion, and she’d wanted to give him something meaningful to commemorate it. After weeks—months—of reconnaissance, she’d settled on a book on Gallipoli she’d heard her father discussing with a friend. She’d claimed coins from the couch cushions, sacrificed a portion of her lunch money and sold some of her most precious comic books to a neighbor, Jimmy Chandler, to afford the purchase. Her father had opened the gift in his usual methodical manner, easing the tape from the paper, folding it away from its contents carefully, painstakingly. Twenty-two years later, she could still remember the rising excitement she’d felt as he’d revealed the book. She’d watched his face, waiting for understanding to dawn.
Waiting for him to understand how much love and planning and care and anticipation had gone into this gift.
His eyes had scanned the title. Then he’d opened the book and spent a few seconds flicking through the first chapter or so. Then he’d met her hopeful, yearning gaze and nodded. Once.
“It’s a good book. Thank you,” he’d said.
He’d stood, crossed the room and put it on the bookshelf. And, to her knowledge, he’d never taken it down again. He also hadn’t pulled her into his arms and told her that she was a good girl and that he loved her, or that he knew how much she loved him. He hadn’t said any of the things that she’d dreamed of him saying. That he was glad she was his. That she made him happy. That she was important to him. That she mattered.
She had cried herself to sleep that night, heartbroken that he hadn’t recognized her love. That he didn’t seem to want it or value it. At some point in the small, dark hours she’d come to the understanding that life had reinforced again and again throughout her lifetime: love could not be earned, and just because one person loved did not mean that that love would be reciprocated. In fact, in her experience, it almost seemed the opposite. The more she loved her father, the more distant and unattainable he’d become.
Yet he’d kept this book. He’d cleared out the house and sold it once he’d been diagnosed and knew the prognosis, determined to leave nothing but a bank account, a will and a corpse behind when his illness got the better of him.
He’d disposed of everything he’d ever owned, passing his belongings to friends or local charities—except for this book.
She lifted the cover. Inside she found her own childishly round writing, as perfectly formed as she could make it at the time.
Dear Dad,
Happy birthday.
With all my love,
Charlotte (Charlie), your daughter
She shut the cover again and rested her hand on the glossy jacket, trying to figure out why he kept this book—other than for the reason that she wanted him to have kept it, of course. But for the life of her she couldn’t come up with a single explanation other than the fact that it had meaning for him, right up until the end.
It was something. In a lifetime that had been short on sentiment and approval, it was something. Especially in light of what had almost happened with Rhys and the discussion she’d had with Gina and what she’d challenged her to do.
Charlie stood and added the book to her bookcase among her reference and design manuals. It looked out of place