Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Cassian,” she says, noting something on her iPad.
“How is he? Heard he wasn’t well enough to go to dinner.”
“Bad night. He’s asleep now. I gave him an injection.”
“What happened?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing particular. These things just happen, Cassian, and they’ll happen more as he declines. You need to be prepared.”
I nod once, but this is a bitter pill. “I’ll go in. Just look in on him.”
“Of course,” she says and steps aside.
I walk down the hall and into my father’s bedroom. Sybil has taken the primary suite and moved him to one of the other rooms. There’s nothing wrong with the room, but it just doesn’t feel right to me. Whatever happened to in sickness and in health?
The lamp on the nightstand is on. It’s dim enough that it’ll stay on the whole night. I walk to the bed to see my father’s diminished form. He used to be a giant of a man, but that was so many years ago it feels like another lifetime. Hell, like it wasn’t my life at all.
He doesn’t stir as I bend down to kiss his forehead and tuck the blankets higher. There’s not much I can do. Even if he were awake, I don’t know where his head would be. It could be clear, but those moments are less and less frequent.
On the nightstand is a photo of my mother, dad and Seth. I put it here because I know that’s what he’d want even if it breaks me a little to see it. I pick it up. Seth was a kid here and if you look close, you can almost see my mother’s bump, but only if you know. Dad’s got his arm on Seth’s shoulder and the other draped over my mom’s. Seth is smiling a huge, toothy smile at the camera. They all are smiling wide and looking right at the photographer. I never got to be a part of this family. My family. She died when I was born. I don’t even know if she held me. All I feel when I see this photo is guilt.
I touch my thumb to my brother’s face. He grew up to look like dad, exactly. I take after mom. Looking at her eyes is like looking into a mirror and I guess that’s what dad saw every time he looked at me. I can’t blame him, can I? I set the photograph down and open the nightstand drawer to take out dad’s rosary and tuck the cross into his palm. The beads rest on the bedspread.
“Sleep tight, Dad,” I tell him. He doesn’t stir. If it were Seth, would he smile, say something, give a squeeze of his hand? I close my eyes and say a little prayer, not that I believe it will do anything. Then, I turn to go. I want to get out of here.
The drive home takes about half an hour. My property is on the edge of town, an old church with a large parcel of land butting right up to the edge of the cliffs. Granted, that land is mostly filled with dead bodies. No, not my doing. It’s the old cemetery, but it’s mine and, well, the dead are quiet.
I was born in the city, grew up in the city. My father began to spend more and more time in Devil’s Peak when he married Sybil. I hadn’t planned on buying property here, but when I saw the dilapidated old church and the grounds that the city was trying to unload, it felt right. It’s the only time I’ve felt this way about a physical place in my life. I tell myself it’s because it’s the perfect retreat from the city, offering the privacy I need and the solitude I crave more and more, but I admit the fact that it is consecrated ground draws me. I’m not sure what I seek. Redemption? No. Answers? Maybe. A miracle? Ridiculous.
I was raised to believe in a God, but I am who I am. My family is what it is. I don’t now and have never shied away from that.
Besides, I know what happened on this land. How it’s tainted.
The church, which is dedicated to St. Anastasia stands tall, a foreboding gothic structure on the edge of town. The road leading up to it is dark and quiet. There’s no reason for anyone to be on it unless they’re headed to the church. It is modeled at least in part after St. Anastasia in Verona, Italy, although it’s nowhere near as old. I like to say I’ve kept to the wishes of the original architects in maintaining and restoring what I could. It is beautiful, although the residents of Devil’s Peak were less than thrilled when they learned who it was sold to. But here in Devil’s Peak, just like anywhere else, money talks, dirty or not.