The house took longer to repair than either of us expected.
Boxes had to be unpacked. Locks had to be replaced. The study floor had to be repaired where Harold had forced open the old cabinet. Dad insisted on keeping the hidden room beneath the shed, though he removed the steel cabinet and filled the walls with shelves.
He called it the archive.
I called it the bunker.
He said the archive sounded more dignified.
We compromised by putting a small wooden sign over the entrance.
It read: MERCER FAMILY ARCHIVE.
The first thing we placed inside was the blue folder.
The second was the original will.
The third was the photograph of Vanessa at the county fair.
Dad kept the photograph because he was not ready to forget the child she had been.
I kept the photograph because I wanted to remember that people could be loved deeply and still make terrible choices.
Winter passed.
Dad’s health improved once he stopped taking the medication Harold had been giving him. His hands steadied. His appetite returned. He began walking every morning, first to the end of the driveway, then around the block, then all the way to the lake.
I moved into the room across from his.
He complained about my boxes in the hallway.
I complained about his habit of leaving newspaper sections on every chair.
We argued about the thermostat and the proper way to make coffee.
The ordinary disagreements felt like gifts.
One Saturday morning, I found him in the garage, polishing the blue pickup.
“You’re not selling it,” I said.
“No.”
“You said Vanessa and Grant could sell it.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
Dad held the cloth against the hood.
“Your mother and I brought you home from the hospital in this truck.”
I leaned against the door.
“I don’t remember.”
“You were three days old.”
