Blythe learns that her father is still alive only when she falls ill. She has felt unwell for weeks, even visits the school nurse, who writes her a referral to a neurologist. Blythe asks her mother to make the appointment, but her mother forgets and later chastises herself, wondering how different things might have been if they had discovered the illness earlier.
Is he alive? Blythe asks again.
Her mother looks down at her socks; a bold hole gapes in the big toe.
Yes, hes alive, her mother repeats. Im sorry.
Blythe says little about her birth father. She does not remember him, though she knows he exists. Since she was two, her stepfather, who adopted her, has raised her as his own. When she turns thirteen, their relationship cracks: she feels he demands too much, scolds constantly, and never lets her be. She then decides to track down her biological father. For three months she needles her mother for a name, an address, a phone numberanything. Her mother remains a silent statue, saying nothing. Blythe hears them whispering together, apparently debating whether to tell the truth. No matter how she argues with her stepfather, Blythe is convinced it was he who persuaded her mother to admit something.
He died, her mother finally says. He crashed in the mountains.
Strangely, Blythe believes her without asking for proof, without contacting any relatives. She finds none.
Ive called him, her mother continues. Hes agreed to a test. If you match, theyll do a bonemarrow transplant and everything will be fine.
In that instant Blythe realises that fine will never return. Her mother has lied, her father has abandoned her, her stepfather has slipped away, claiming you cant force love. Who needs her now? Nature, she thinks, is shedding the superfluous.
I dont want this! she shouts. No operation. I hate you all, I dont want to live!
Her mother tries to hug her, but Blythe tears free and retreats to her room.
The sky merges with a hanging mist, erasing the horizon. Blythe likes that her windows look out onto a barren field, though her mother sighed when they moved, lamenting how the other windows face the back garden, which Blythe finds dull. From her window she can watch the sunset, while the garden only hosts children and elderly ladies. Today there is no sunset; the world is awash in a grey haze that shows no sign of clearing, even in the brief moments between day and night. The world darkens and blurs, just like Blythes life.
When she hears footsteps she expects her mother to apologise, but it is her stepfather. He stands in the doorway, as if afraid Blythe will drive him away.
Dont be angry at your mother. She meant well.
Well, right! Would you have liked it if shed buried you like that?
She wrote to him, saying you wanted to meet. He never answered. She thought that would be best, he repeats.
Blythe bites her lip. He never answered. Now that hes dying, he finally replies.
The stepfather shuffles toward the kitchen, waiting for Blythes response that never comes.
An hour later Blythe finally goes to her mother. She has already decided everything, but gives everyone time to cool down.
In her mothers bedroom a vanilla scent from her perfume overwhelms everything else, yet Blythe still detects the powdery makeup, the strawberry hand cream, the musty smell of library books. Her mother loves borrowing from the local library, calling it a touch of class. The lamp is off, her silhouette merges with the armchair, a long dressing gown drapes over her white legs. She never tans artificially and spends the winter yearning for summer sunshine.
Fine, Blythe says. Let him do the test.
She learns in the hospital that her father is a candidate for the transplant. Her condition worsens, despite the doctors promise that there is still time. Time, however, runs out, and Blythe feels herself fading.
She lies on the bed, turned toward the wall, digging a flaking piece of paint from under her nail. She watches the cracks and feels unreal. Everything around her feels like a dream. She presses the paint into the cut, blood oozes, as if that might prove shes alive. The compressed mattress, the nurses voices in the corridor, the hospitals sterile smellall seem like an illusion, a lingering sleep.
Before she opens her eyes, Blythe catches a familiar scent. She inhales tobacco mixed with engine oil, exhales sharply, and opens her eyes.
A man in a white coat draped over his shoulders stands at the foot of the bed. His face is weatherworn, suntanned, lined with deep wrinkles; his eyebrows are thick, his eyes brown and wide, just like Blythes.
Hello, daughter, he says, his voice low and oddly familiar.
Hello, Blythe croaks, clearing her throat. Hello.
The man is nothing like the phantom she imagined. He has a wife and three sons, works as a mechanic fixing doubledecker buses. Blythe never knew such a job existed. She tells him she wants to become a canine handler, but her mother opposes it, so she will study veterinary science first and then return to dogs.
Dogs are better than people, he comments.
The operation succeeds. Blythe expects her father to visit or at least call, but he never appears. Instead, her mother and stepfather take turns visiting every other day: her mother leaves the lingering vanilla perfume and fresh books, oblivious that Blythe never opens the old ones. Her stepfather simply sits beside her, spouting nonsense even while she faces the wall.
On the day of discharge Blythe still waits for her father, convinced he will come. While the doctor steps out, she rises, looks at the slightly ajar window stained with faint child handprints, steps toward it, breathes the cool damp air, feels the floor sway beneath her as if she were on a boat in a swift river. The ward is empty; she throws the window wide open. A gust slams into her face, carrying the scent of wet earth, fresh pine, and dusty asphalt. Cars roar past, scattering flocks of sparrows. The bright blue of the spring sky cuts her eyes.
She thinks of her fathers rough hands still smeared with grease, his thinning hair brushed to the side to hide a bald patch, the way he spends his days repairing the massive buses with their funny antlerlike front lights. She imagines the creases on his forehead, the furrowed brows, the words he will never say.
Below, her stepfather and mother cling to each other as they always do, as if a storm has left their legs unsteady, just like Blythe after her long illness. They are about to leave when the door swings open, the street smells of sunshine and water. Her father, in his work jacket, holds the door. In his hands is a small bouquet of tulips. Blythe wipes a tear from her cheek, smiles, and steps forward.
