No matter how often Gloria called him ‘Dad’, Colin’s heart skipped a beat, his chest constricted, and he had to catch the gasp in his throat. Even if she had been his bio-daughter—his offspring—he couldn’t have loved her more. Or better.
Not that their relationship was always easy. “You have an exasperating way of saying the same thing not once, not twice, but a hundred different ways when you want to get your way!” he griped.
He sipped at his coffee, avoided her unwavering stare by focusing instead on Hermes, playing with Jason and Mars in Gloria and Michael’s backyard. The dog was running circles around them, refusing to give up the stuffy he’d snatched from their sandbox, but letting them approach within inches before scampering and dodging away, growling and shaking their toy as if he were an apex predator with fresh prey clamped in his jaws, the kids laughing hysterically.
“I care about you, Dad,” Gloria persisted. “I’m not going to let anyone, not even you, behave in a way that puts your life at risk. Crossing the continent on your own, in what your sister has so aptly named ‘the Junkernaught’ is too much of a risk. Don’t you think?”
Colin sighed, venting. If it had been anyone but Gloria, he would have snarled and snapped. As it was, he had to restrain himself. He glanced her way; she didn’t flinch. She was putting everything on the line because she loved him. He saw the torment in her eyes, and it pained him to be the source of her anguish.
“Who says I’m alone?”
Gloria crossed her arms and frowned, as if to say, No fair!
“She’s with me always, Glow. There’s never a moment I’m alone. Even when I’m not aware of her, she’s with me—my guardian angel. Cynthia made me promise. You know that. She made me promise to go on this journey; she’s not going to let me go alone.”
“I know how much you loved her, Dad. Know how much you love the memory of her,” Gloria stammered. “We all do.”
Colin wanted to reach across the corner of the table and console her. He wanted to cradle her cheeks in the cup of his hands, and daub her glistering tears away with his thumbs. He restrained himself. It would have been unfair to douse her loving-anger with a gentle absolution, as if it was something that could be made better with a tender touch.
She shifted, straightening her shoulders, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her blouse. Colin waited. Gloria locked on with her shockingly beautiful green eyes—eyes that see right through you, he’d described to Cynthia soon after they’d met their son’s girlfriend and bride-to-be.
“You’ve never believed in an afterlife…” Gloria let the thought go, a caged bird that needed to be free.
He smiled. Adoringly. As only a father can, a father acknowledging the wisdom of his child. “I’ve never felt more loved than in this instant, dear. Have never felt so clumsy, because I don’t have words to express this joy, and I don’t want to be misunderstood. Thank you for having the courage to say what needed saying.”
“But?” She waited.
“But Cynthia and I must take to Rialta Road, love.” He held up his hands to stop Gloria from interrupting. “We have to take the risk, or else we’ll forever regret it.
“Cynthia’s not a ghost, Glow,” he continued. “She’s spirit, infused into every cell of my body. I have become her legs, her eyes, her thoughts and feelings. If I don’t fulfill the pledge I made to her, I will become a grumpy old man—a failure, who shrank from the final, defining task of his life and times.”
From consternation, Gloria’s countenance morphed into puzzlement, then surprise, and finally resignation. And sadness. Tears brimmed again, rolling down the channels of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Dad,” she almost whispered. “I didn’t understand.”
“Of course you didn’t, hon,” he leaned over, wrapping his arms around her in an awkward hug. “I didn’t understand completely, myself until just now. You’ve helped me bring things into sharper focus.”
“How?” She leaned back, holding him in her gaze.
“When I dunked myself in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I was vowing to fulfill an obligation; explaining to you what this pilgrimage means has helped me to see this voyage as a mission, too—my version of the Camino de Santiago.”
She laughed; he struck a noble pose.
“In the Junkernaught?”
“The true pilgrim accepts the broken-down state of his body or mode of conveyance; he is moved by the spirit within,” he patted his chest in the spot where he figured his heart should be.
“And yet, even the truest of pilgrims must eat,” Gloria rubbed her tummy. “Isn’t that so?”
“Can I help in any way?”
“Can you peel a potato and cut it into something that resembles a french fry?”