The Tower

A memorial statue, smooth marble with a shield lichen perched over one ear like a flower, gazes at a rose with a few raindrops on it, against a black background.

Friday, February 9th, 2007.

I went back over my journal entries. It’s so surreal. Less than a month ago I was thinking about how healthy Dad was. How he seemed like he would live a long life. Was I in denial? Not wanting to face the toll that his lifestyle was taking on his body? All those late nights, always out and on the go, never resting. Was he hiding how lousy he had been feeling this entire time? Was I not a good enough daughter to see it?

Stuart keeps telling me that it’s not my fault Dad’s gone, but if I had been a better daughter and had seen how sick he was behind that businessman’s facade, I wouldn’t have reacted to him the way I did. I would have found a way to make things work, let him get to know Stuart over time. Stuart says that it was a full week later that Dad had the heart attack, that it couldn’t have been me, but I’m sure I wasn’t helping him relax.

Stuart insists Dad wasn’t still mad enough for it to have caused an attack. He was there the morning Dad died, dropping off paperwork so I wouldn’t have to see him. I was still mad after the fight. He said Dad seemed pretty relaxed about the whole thing, that he believed I was going to come running back, so he wasn’t worried. Stuart’s just trying to ease my guilt, though.

Thank God, for Stuart. It’s been a blessing to have him here, to help me through this. He did all the arrangements, hired someone to do the books for a while, and to teach him how to take over, so I can spend time grieving. He even said something about having his friends keep the press away, and it seems to have worked. Stuart’s going to take care of everything.

  • From the journal of Lillian Anderson

P.S. – This is part three. The full story is over here.

Flickering red tealight in a glass holder.

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