Day Twenty-Five
My mother stays in bed; my father is quietly worrying, walking the ever-shrinking perimeter. I think he might be praying for a break in the rain but his prayers, thus far, remain unanswered. Once a day, I plead with him to tell me where the sealskin is. He is tight-lipped. He acts as though we have a truce, but we do not have a truce. I am vigilant watching him. I just know he will slip up. That I will catch him in his secret. Meanwhile, Mum grows stronger. We feed her soup and tea. But she says odd, feverish things. This morning, she said, “What has become of your sisters in your story?”
I say, “They asked to be left out of the story.”
“But do they call?”
In fact, they have each called twice and she has spoken to them. They live far away and send love.
I haven’t menti
