Dust to Dust by Melissa Walker Page A

for you to get there. She wanted you to be the one who let her go.”
    His words hit me in the chest. They remind me of what Thatcher told me, that my mother was able to move on to Solus, the final stage after the Prism, only after I got over her death. My eyes cloud with tears and I take a sip of water, hoping that I won’t cry at the table.
    â€œI’m sorry, Callie—I’m upsetting you.”
    â€œNo.” I shake my head. “It’s okay. I like hearing about her.”
    â€œWell, I just thank the Lord that he let you stay here with me,” says Dad. “I talked to him all the time while you were in the hospital. I begged him not to take my other girl, and he listened. Weshould be grateful for every day we have together, Callie.”
    I look at him sideways. My father’s not much for God talk, especially out in public and surrounded by strangers. Still he makes a good point about being grateful for being together, because I’m beginning to learn just how painful it is to be separated from someone you have an unbreakable bond with.
    When our steaks arrive, Dad bows his head in prayer, and I instinctively mimic him, though we don’t usually say grace in restaurants. I guess this is a new thing, and it feels kind of comforting.
    â€œWe thank you, Father, for the food we are about to receive. Tonight we celebrate the miracle of Callie’s life, and the special gifts you’ve bestowed upon her.”
    I open one eye to peer at him. What gifts is he talking about? Does he know about the Prism? About my connection with Thatcher?
    No . . . he can’t.
    I close my eyes again and wait for the Amen.
    On the ride home, I’m a bit shell-shocked by our conversation. That dinner was more intense than I expected. Usually Dad chews his steak and we talk about sports or a documentary he just saw or something. I wasn’t prepared for him to talk to me about the day Mama died—or how he begged God not to take me away from him. I’m not sure where any of it came from, or if I was quite ready to hear any of it.
    â€œLook,” says my father, slowing down at a red light behind a big green truck. There’s a bumper sticker that reads FUBAR , and hesays, “Remember when you asked me what FUBAR stood for?”
    I let out a snort. “Fully and Utterly Bad and Wrong!”
    â€œI had to think of a clean version on the fly,” he replies, smiling.
    â€œWell, I guess you conveyed the general meaning.”
    We both laugh until our eyes fill up with joy tears, and a small spot of happiness settles into my heart. I can’t remember the last time being with him was this easy. And it shouldn’t be, considering that he knows I’ve been lying to him about the pills. The father I knew six months ago would have given me a stern lecture and probably even grounded me for “not following orders.”
    But maybe being grateful for every day we have together means not letting things come between us and keep us at arm’s length. Maybe it means giving each other more room to be who we are and loving each other in spite of the fact we might not see everything eye to eye.
    My feelings bubble over as we step out of the car, and I rush up to him for a hug.
    â€œWhoa, what’s all this?” he asks, squeezing me back.
    â€œI just . . . ,” I start. “I really love you, Daddy.”
    He kisses the top of my head. “Me too.”
    When I get up to my room, I shut the door and sit down at my desk to open my laptop. My search history shows their names: Thatcher Larson, Reena Bell, Leo Cutler. It would be so easy to go down this rabbit hole again, trying to find clues to trigger all of my memories and a way to call out to Thatcher. I close my eyes and turn inward, concentrating, and I can feel his presence, like agentle hand on my back, an impression on my skin.
    He’s here with me. But I can’t see him, I can’t talk to