I was glad for the time Cynthia and I got to spend together, although she did spend a lot of it worrying over her father. An example of our typical discussion over this was as follows:
Her: This food is gross, you know.
Me: Sorry, dehydrated food always is.
Her: I wonder what Dad’s eating. He’s never cooked for himself, you know.
Me: I’m sure he’s doing ok.
Her: I hope he doesn’t try to make the chicken I bought, he doesn’t know how to—
And so she would continue, worrying about minute little details and avoiding the most crucial problem: that he was probably worried sick, and he might of gone out and gotten drunk… and died.
Cynthia didn’t like to think about that, so she worried about other things, inconsequential other things. Laundry, dishes, food, keeping the house clean, but never his alcoholism.
We had many quiet conversations as the days passed. I came to know her even better.Our conversations had quickly become personal; I knew all her darkest fears, her hopes, her wishes. And she knew mine.