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So Dad has been in the process of formulating a plan, and now I know I am a part of it. At least for the next three years until I am eighteen, I think. Now it is safe for him to reveal to Terry that he is headed for California and we are going with him. The house is quiet. No sound comes from the back bedrooms, and I guess that Wayne has slipped through the window with Queen or one of his other reptilian friends. Terry disappeared earlier, and there is no more movement from Mom.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to go with me when I talked to you before, Dawn,” Dad admits with a shy smile, his gaze still focused through the glass.

“What? Hell, yes, I want to go with you, Dad.” I almost jump from my seat. I can’t believe it. Am I really going to get out of this place? Questions swirl through my mind, and I can’t contain myself. “Dad? Where are we going to stay? Am I gonna meet Pen Ci and Jack? When are they coming to the States?”

“Now, hang on, Dawn,” Dad says, motioning his hand downward for me to calm myself. “Let’s take this slow.” Suddenly, his face lights up, and he puts his finger up in the air as if to gesture that he has an idea.

“What?” I’m curious now about the excitement on his face.

“Ah-haaaaaa!” he says slowly and points his finger toward the sky like a lightbulb has gone off. “I know. We’ll ask the cards.”

“What? Read our fortune?”

“We’ll do it over here.”

Dad leads me into the living room, moving the coffee table out of the way and grabbing his deck of cards. We both sit cross-legged on the living room floor. He picks out a red queen, lays it in the center of the floor, and explains that she represents me. He hands me the cards and I begin to shuffle. “Place all your thoughts into them while you shuffle, Dawn,” Dad instructs. He sits with his legs crossed directly opposite me and is very still. I get the sense that he has done this many times and imagine this is how he speaks to the man from the stone.

I close my eyes, pressing the cards hard between my palms, and begin to shuffle. Carefully, so as to not break the train of thought, I give them back to Dad. He holds them in his palms and mumbles a prayer under his breath. Slowly, he places each card down in a star pattern, then circles it with more cards, and finally places one facedown on the red queen. He takes a deep breath. “Ahhh. That’s a good one, Dawn. Ahhh. Now, let’s see.”

At that moment, Terry comes storming into the house banging the door behind her. “Hey!” She sounds out of breath and heads in our direction. “What are you guys doing?”

“Shhh,” Dad tells her, trying to keep his concentration. “Sit down.”

Terry approaches like an oncoming train, stepping directly over the cards to find a seat on the couch against the wall.

“Aww, God damn it!” Dad yells, flinging down the remaining cards. “You can’t do that!”

“What? What happened?” Terry asks, wide-eyed and frozen.

“Aww, shit!” Dad moans, “Son of a bitch!” He reaches down with more grunts and groans of disgust and scoops up the spread of cards.

“Wait,” I cry. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t read these cards. They’re all wrong now.”

“Wrong? What do you mean, wrong?” I’m in a panic. “Can’t you make it right?”

“Ahh, there’s nothing I can do, Dawn. She put the bottom of her foot over your head. Over your head! Here…,” he says, pointing to the red queen.

“What… what did I do?” Terry whimpers. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You ruined my reading!”

“It’s not good,” Dad says as he gets up from the floor. “It’s not good.” He shakes his head and walks away.

I am bummed. The silence is thick between my sister and me as we both sit, stunned. We are already nervous about all the changes that are happening. Deep in my heart I hope this is not a premonition of the days to come.

Time drags by at an exaggeratedly slow pace as the school year ends. I can’t wait for us to be out of here. Dad passes his time predictably. He wakes early in the morning, sits at the table with his coffee, and reads the paper. When he is done, he faithfully pulls out his cards and begins endless games of solitaire while he mentally makes more of his “plans.” Once summer arrives and school gets out, I sit with Dad and drink coffee, reading the parts of the paper he has just finished. I have my own deck of cards and have fun practicing my shuffling. Dad watches from the corner of his eye, smiling.

So go the remainder of our days—most of them, anyway. My excitement is high; the divorce will be final very soon, and we can be on our way. But then comes one odd morning at the end of June. I drag my feet into the kitchen as usual, annoyed at the harsh Florida sun flooding the house, and find that Dad is not in his regular spot at the table. This is odd, I think, but I am not alarmed. I tiptoe into Grandma’s room, where Dad sleeps, and stand next to his bed. Dad is curled in a ball with the covers over his head, moaning in pain.

“What’s the matter, Dad?”

“I don’t feel good,” he groans weakly.

“Why?”

“My head! It hurts!”

“Do you want some aspirin?”

His voice is a childlike whimper. “’Kay.”

I wait for him to say something else, but he says nothing. This isn’t right, I think, strongly sensing the presence of something serious. I run to retrieve the pills. Dad downs a double dose of the aspirin and after a while comes to the table to check the paper’s headlines. He’s feeling a bit better but wants to go back to bed.

“Where does it hurt, Dad?”

“Right here,” he says, pointing to the space between his eyes. The spot looks angry and red as if he has been poked. I dismiss it as only a migraine that will get better soon. (I’ve never associated the constant small pimple on the side of his nose with this terrible headache. After all, it is “just a pimple.”) Dad doesn’t stay up very long; he says that the pain is getting worse, not better, and he goes to bed early.

Mom stays quiet through all of this and keeps her distance.

The next morning is as bright as the day before. Dad doesn’t come to the table again, so I worry and go to check on him.

“Dad, are you all right?” I call out softly.

He is again curled in the fetal position and sounds like he is barely breathing. He mumbles something I can’t understand.

“What?” I ask, beginning to panic.

He lets out a long, low groan that sounds as if it comes from a wounded animal. I can’t understand him and reach out to touch his shoulder.

“Dad! Are you all right?”

With great effort, he rolls over and pulls the covers off his head. Trying to block the light with his arm, he looks up at me.

“Oh my God!” I’m shocked at the sight of his face. “Dad, you’ve got a big lump between your eyes where that red spot was yesterday!” I gush. It is too late to try to sound calm.

Dad looks panicked, and he touches the spot. “Yeah, I thought I felt something. Is it bad?” He looks me over carefully to check my expression.

“You gotta go to the doctor.”

His voice is barely audible. “Yeah, I think you are right, babe. Go call your mother.”

Mom races home after my panicked call and takes Dad to the hospital while the three of us children wait nervously at the house for any news of what’s wrong. Already stressed about the divorce and getting the house ready to close escrow, Mom is afraid to reach out emotionally again, but she can never turn down anyone who needs help in such a desperate way, not even if that person is the husband who is soon to be her ex. She waits patiently at the hospital until the doctors are able to diagnose his condition.