musician. Instead, I see an echo of my own sharp nose and wide eyes. I set the picture down, straightening it so it looks as if it hasn’t moved.
I brush my fingers over the pages of Dad’s Bible, then hesitate over the notebook beneath.
We always would see Dad writing things. He’d take a notebook to church and write. Sometimes in the summer he’d sit in the backyard and write in the morning while he was drinking his coffee. I was never really curious about it. After all, Justin and I had our own notebooks. Dad said his notebook wasn’t his diary; it was just full of things he was thinking about, things he wrote down so he could think them through clearly.
My fingers itch to open the thin cardboard cover and see what my father has written on those neat blue lines. I want a clue to his thoughts—I want to know what’s in his mind now, where we’ll all end up. I want to know if he’s been alone in this bed. But as I reach for it, my conscience stings, and my hand drops.
I haven’t really done anything wrong yet, not too wrong, really. But I know I cannot open that notebook. There is a line from curiosity to invasion that I just can’t cross.
Sighing, I clench my inquisitive fingers and walk around the rest of the room. Dad’s bathroom door is open, and moist towels—only one set—hang on the shower stall. I tiptoe into the tiny space that houses the toilet and open the mirrored cabinets above the sink. One is empty, the other holds aspirin and cough medicine. The walk-in closet across from the sink area is illuminated by the warm lights above the mirror, and I move toward it instinctively, my hand brushing the wool fabric of slacks and jacket. I look up and see Dad’s hard hat on a shelf, the name of his company on the front. I push deeper, looking for secrets and answers. Does Dad have the Christine dresses in here? What if he has wigs?
My heart freezes as my fingers encounter something silky. When I can force myself to look, I see it’s just Dad’s luau shirt, the bright short-sleeved, floral-printed one Mom bought him for our church beach party, but it’s enough to scare me into backing out of the closet, my pulse thudding a panicked tempo in my throat.
I lean against the wall to catch my breath, my gasps quick and shallow. I realize I don’t want to know about my father’s other life. I don’t want to see him as Christine. I don’t want evidence that everything’s changed.
I don’t really want to know him.
“So, why are you in here, stupid?” I mutter to myself. I turn toward the door and find my glance captured once again by the notebook. I hesitate, knowing I don’t want to know what’s in there. Still, the fear pulls me away as strongly as the desperate curiosity urges me forward.
I step closer, lifting the Bible and disturbing the pages. A worn blue envelope slides from between the pages and falls. I bend and pick it up, my eyes widening. It’s addressed to Christine Nicholas.
He said he would never hurt Mom. He said I knew him better than that
.
My heart pounding, I slip the pretty notepaper from the envelope, breathing in the faint perfume as I unfold it. I suck in air as I recognize my mother’s careful, precise script, and my eyes follow the lines:
Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is stronger than death, and jealousy as cold as the grave; its flames burn with a mighty fire like the fires of hell. But many waters cannot quench love, and floods cannot drown it. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, his riches would be utterly condemned
.
The words are faintly familiar, and I realize they’re from the Bible. Beneath the verse, she has written just the word
Always
.
Hastily, I refold the letter, fingers clumsy. What am I
doing?
I shouldn’t be here. I have trespassed into something hugelyprivate between my parents, and I’m embarrassed—oh Lord, so embarrassed—and irritated with myself. If Dad ever read my journal
I brush my fingers over the pages of Dad’s Bible, then hesitate over the notebook beneath.
We always would see Dad writing things. He’d take a notebook to church and write. Sometimes in the summer he’d sit in the backyard and write in the morning while he was drinking his coffee. I was never really curious about it. After all, Justin and I had our own notebooks. Dad said his notebook wasn’t his diary; it was just full of things he was thinking about, things he wrote down so he could think them through clearly.
My fingers itch to open the thin cardboard cover and see what my father has written on those neat blue lines. I want a clue to his thoughts—I want to know what’s in his mind now, where we’ll all end up. I want to know if he’s been alone in this bed. But as I reach for it, my conscience stings, and my hand drops.
I haven’t really done anything wrong yet, not too wrong, really. But I know I cannot open that notebook. There is a line from curiosity to invasion that I just can’t cross.
Sighing, I clench my inquisitive fingers and walk around the rest of the room. Dad’s bathroom door is open, and moist towels—only one set—hang on the shower stall. I tiptoe into the tiny space that houses the toilet and open the mirrored cabinets above the sink. One is empty, the other holds aspirin and cough medicine. The walk-in closet across from the sink area is illuminated by the warm lights above the mirror, and I move toward it instinctively, my hand brushing the wool fabric of slacks and jacket. I look up and see Dad’s hard hat on a shelf, the name of his company on the front. I push deeper, looking for secrets and answers. Does Dad have the Christine dresses in here? What if he has wigs?
My heart freezes as my fingers encounter something silky. When I can force myself to look, I see it’s just Dad’s luau shirt, the bright short-sleeved, floral-printed one Mom bought him for our church beach party, but it’s enough to scare me into backing out of the closet, my pulse thudding a panicked tempo in my throat.
I lean against the wall to catch my breath, my gasps quick and shallow. I realize I don’t want to know about my father’s other life. I don’t want to see him as Christine. I don’t want evidence that everything’s changed.
I don’t really want to know him.
“So, why are you in here, stupid?” I mutter to myself. I turn toward the door and find my glance captured once again by the notebook. I hesitate, knowing I don’t want to know what’s in there. Still, the fear pulls me away as strongly as the desperate curiosity urges me forward.
I step closer, lifting the Bible and disturbing the pages. A worn blue envelope slides from between the pages and falls. I bend and pick it up, my eyes widening. It’s addressed to Christine Nicholas.
He said he would never hurt Mom. He said I knew him better than that
.
My heart pounding, I slip the pretty notepaper from the envelope, breathing in the faint perfume as I unfold it. I suck in air as I recognize my mother’s careful, precise script, and my eyes follow the lines:
Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is stronger than death, and jealousy as cold as the grave; its flames burn with a mighty fire like the fires of hell. But many waters cannot quench love, and floods cannot drown it. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, his riches would be utterly condemned
.
The words are faintly familiar, and I realize they’re from the Bible. Beneath the verse, she has written just the word
Always
.
Hastily, I refold the letter, fingers clumsy. What am I
doing?
I shouldn’t be here. I have trespassed into something hugelyprivate between my parents, and I’m embarrassed—oh Lord, so embarrassed—and irritated with myself. If Dad ever read my journal
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