SKYLAR
Liver Cancer.
It’d been two years and ninety-five days since my father’s doctor had uttered the words. Sixty days since it had returned, inoperable this time. Fifty days since my father canceled his sold-out European tour. And twenty-eight days since we packed up our villa in Germany and moved to Asheville, North Carolina.
And now, we had one day before our new normal began. Mine at Madison High, while my father’s would be at Mission Hospital, undergoing an experimental chemo that would hopefully save his life.
Descending the stairs in our new home, I glanced at the dozens of framed albums that signified my father’s music career. Gold. Platinum. Multi-Platinum. Pictures with presidents and foreign heads of state, A-list actors and directors, and my personal favorite, the one he took with eight-year-old Brent Williams for the Starlight Children’s Foundation.
Meeting my father was Brent’s wish. A day with Donnie Wyld—international rock legend and lead singer for the band that shared my name, Skylar Wyld. Brent sang on stage, signed autographs, rode in the limo and had the time of his life.
I touched the glass, my gaze lingering on the man who could captivate millions. We’d both need my father’s determination if we were going to get through these next few months.
I found my dad in the kitchen. He sat at the bar, elbows propped with his head resting in his hands.
“You’re awake.” I kissed his cheek, his late afternoon shadow scratching my lips. The deep purple under his eyes reflected his exhaustion. The pain was getting worse.
“Yeah. Can’t sleep all day.”
But he was sleeping all day. Going to bed early, getting up late, taking three to four hour naps. I knew the tiredness was due to his medicine, and I prayed every night this new medical trial would work.
I grabbed three plates from the cupboard and started setting our kitchen table. “When is the wicked witch getting here?”
“Skylar.” My dad rarely scolded me, but he’d made it clear I needed to watch my attitude with my aunt.
“Sorry. When is Josephine getting here?” My tone was anything but remorseful. The woman had invaded our lives. Not only was she here several times a day, taking up the little time my father was awake, but also she was pushy and pessimistic, and rearranged our kitchen after I’d spent two hours unpacking it.
I’d barely known Josephine as a child. We only saw her twice a year and, every time, she pushed me aside, interested in spending time with only my dad. Plus, I distinctly remembered my mom and dad fighting after one of her visits. Something they almost never did. Now, I understood my mother’s irritation. The woman was impossible to like.
Daddy sighed, fatigue etched in the lines of his too-thin face. “Any minute now. We need to discuss our plan for tomorrow.”
My entire body flinched. “Let me go with you. I’d be much better company than your sister.”
“No, Skylar. We’ve been through this. I won’t let you be my caretaker. It’s bad enough your life is getting turned upside down at seventeen. You don’t need to take my illness on as well. That’s why we moved here. So I could have Josie.”
I wanted to yell how unfair he was being. That I was old enough to be of help to him. How moving us back to the States was a mistake. But I settled for saying, “This sucks.”
I missed everything about Germany. My old house, the lack of paparazzi, Ricky and the rest of my dad’s band. We were like family. I’d grown up with their kids. And now they were half a world away, replaced by a woman who grated every one of my nerves.
“I’m sorry, Skylar. I wish this wasn’t happening either. But your life shouldn’t stop just because I’m sick. I want you to reconsider Paris. You already took your SATs, and Ms. Stapler says you are well ahead of any other senior.”
I eyed my father. His publicist had recently updated his style, chopping off his signature shoulder length hair for a more trendy style. He still wore the earrings and multiple leather bracelets, but I missed his old look. I didn’t miss this old argument, though.
“I need to graduate. Officially.”
“Ms. Stapler is a certified teacher and has been your tutor since you were ten. She’d write your diploma without a second thought. You could start applying to ESMOD fashion school now, and be in the seat by January.”
I loved that he supported my passion to study in Paris, but my mind was made up. “I can’t design clothes for teenage girls when I’ve hardly met any of them. High school sounds so, I don’t know, different, romantic. Normal. I want the experience.” And I wanted to be near my dad, even if he was pushing me away.
My father did a weird grunt-huff thing. “I’ve done high school. Nothing romantic about it. Just a bunch of kids with too much money and not enough to do. Been there, Skylar, and it’s not something I want you anywhere near.”
I resisted an eye roll. Daddy was a bad boy turned good. A rock star who spent his weekends with his only daughter and never drank anything stronger than black coffee. His constant traveling forced the homeschool thing, but sometimes I wondered if Daddy would have insisted on it anyway.
“Madison has the highest academic ratings in the county,” I reminded him.
“It also has the highest median household income. I know these kind of kids.”
We stared at each other, hoping we could change one another’s mind. “I’m not leaving until you’re better. If you won’t let me stay home and help, then I’m going to Madison. It was our compromise. Remember?”
His long sigh told me I’d won. “You’re so much like your mother. Stubborn.” A shadow passed over his face, and his eyes stared off into an old memory. “Sometimes I look at you and think she’s standing right there.” Sadness coated his voice.
I slipped into his arms, squeezing him as tightly as his pain threshold would allow.
My mom died in a car accident when I was ten. She’d been the love of his life, the reason he gave up partying and became the father I knew. It took a year after her death before he smiled again. But we survived that tragedy, and we’d survive this one. We were fighters. And we had each other. Nothing else mattered.