After a three-hour delay at the next station, my last bus finally pulls up. The line to board is shorter than the last, and I’m grateful it looks like I’ll get a seat to myself again. I’ve done nothing but sit for a full day, yet I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life.

I doze off a few minutes after we pass the Welcome to New Mexico sign, my brain replaying yesterday morning over and over in my head until the record is finally worn out. Dreams take over where my conscious state leaves off.

I’m four or maybe five years old and the man comes to visit me again. He comes every few weeks. He only stays an hour or two but we always have fun. Sometimes he takes me for ice cream, other times, like today, we go to the park. He pushes me on the swing high. Really high. Mom’s too afraid to let me soar through the air, she thinks I’m too little. But I’m not. I’m big and Mike doesn’t treat me like a baby.

After the park we go out for hamburgers. To a real restaurant, not the kind where you carry your food on a tray to the table yourself. The kind where someone else carries the tray for you. He tells me to put the white cloth napkin on my lap and smiles when I do.

“How has Mom been lately?” he asks. He always asks weird questions about Mom.

“She’s good. She’s been tired a lot lately. Sometimes it’s hard for her to get out of bed. But I can make toast for us,” I declare proudly.

“Do you cook anything else?”

“Sure. I cook eggs and chicken nuggets and spaghetti.”

“You use the top of the stove and the inside?”

“You mean the oven?”

He grins. “Yes, I mean the oven. Where is Mom when you’re cooking?”

“Sometimes she’s in bed. I told you she’s tired a lot lately. The Doctor gave her some new medicine. I have to bring it to her at 8, 12, 4, and again before I go to bed.”

“So you also dispense Mom’s medicine.”

“Dispense?” I crinkle up my nose like something smells bad.

“It means to give out.”

Oh. Then yes. I nod. He always asks so many questions. But he asks them fast, one right after the other, so it feels more like we’re playing a game. He smiles when I get some right. I like when he smiles. He doesn’t do it very much. He and Mom fight a lot when he comes to pick me up. Then he’s in a bad mood. They fight more when he drives me home too. I don’t think Mom likes him very much. But Mike loves Mom, he says so every time before he leaves.

“Do you have any friends, Nicole?”

“Not really,” I say feeling badly. I don’t want to disappoint him, but there isn’t much time for friends with Mom being sick lately.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a sister?”

I nod briskly. I’d love to have a sister. Then I could play all day and still keep watch on Mom.

Mike’s quiet on the ride back home. We pull into the driveway, he gives me a kiss on the forehead and pulls a flower out of the back seat like he always does. A purple lily. I run into my room as soon as I get in like I always do. I throw away the old lily and put in the new one. I keep it there until the next time he comes. It gets all shrively, but he always comes before it’s completely dead.

I hear them fighting a minute later. Mike yells something about his daughters. It sounds like he really wants to spend more time with them. I hope that doesn’t mean he won’t come visit anymore. He’s nice to me and takes me out. Mom doesn’t go out much anymore.

The fight gets louder and Mom screams at him to leave. She sounds pretty upset. I listen with my ear pressed to the door until the door slams and the car pulls out of the driveway. Then I go to check on Mom, like I always do.

“Mom? What are you doing?”

She’s shoving things into a garbage bag frantically. “We have to move tomorrow,” she says with that look I see on her face a lot lately.

I really don’t want to move again, it feels like we just got here. I like this place. There are even a few kids that live close by. I was hoping maybe I could even make some friends. But Mom looks upset. I hate to see her that way. “Okay Mommy.” I walk to where she is sitting on the floor, shoving things from the bottom drawer into the bag. I take the bag from her hands. “Did you remember to take your medicine at four?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Go back to bed. I’ll bring it to you and then I’ll pack the boxes for us.”

The bus grinds to an abrupt halt. My eyes dart open. I suddenly feel sick. I rush to the back of the bus and open the bathroom door, thank god it’s empty. I vomit before I even have a chance to slide the latch on the door to lock it.

Memories surge back to me like a dam that has been holding back a violent flood. It breaks, sucking me under so deep it’s hard to breathe. Memories of Mike. The picture of him clear as day for the first time with my eyes wide open. Mike…Dr. Michael Bennett…Emily’s father. All those family photos of him on Emily’s wall. He used to come visit me. Take me out to play. I was little, but I remember now. Why didn’t I remember before? Why didn’t he ever tell me he was my father?

I remember the day I threw out the last lily. It was shriveled and black, pieces flaked off of it when I touched it. Why did he stop coming to see me? What did I do wrong?

***

It’s impossible to fall asleep during the rest of the bus ride. Nine hours go by, things pass by outside my window, but it’s all a blur. Nothing makes sense. It’s all too much to be a coincidence.