Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“Bye.” I stare at my phone screen for a minute. Then I set it on my desk and flop my head down beside it onto my crossed arms. “I’ve got it bad.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Will
“Hey,” I say, hugging my mom the second I walk into my dad’s hospital room.
Dad rolls his eyes. “Such a waste of time and money. I’m missing work for this.”
Mom releases me and returns to his bedside, resting her hand on his. “You’re retired, dear.” She eyes me. “The tests on his heart came back fine. It might have just been anxiety.”
“What? I can’t hear you,” Dad grumbles.
I feel instant relief, even if Mom seems disappointed. She turns away and quickly wipes her eyes. Why is she crying? He’ll be fine.
“Where did that cute nurse go?” Dad asks.
Mom winces before grabbing her purse and exiting the room. I reach for her, but she pulls away.
“Where’s she going? Bed? She goes to bed so early. What time is it?” Dad asks. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Whatever is causing his mental decline hasn’t gotten better.
“Dad, it’s morning. She’s not going to bed. I think she needs some fresh air is all.” I sit on the chair beside his bed.
“I never cheated on her. I had many opportunities, but I never did.” He narrows his eyes, staring at the whiteboard on the wall below his TV. “Even when I had pennies in my shoes, I didn’t cheat on her. Will you tell her that?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“My daughter sent me cookies. A whole box of chocolate chip cookies.”
“Leah didn’t send them, I did.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I think Leah did.”
I open my mouth to argue, but shut it just as quickly. What’s the point?
He makes a circle with his fingers. “They were little ones. One bite. I ate the whole box.”
“Leah’s the best.” I nod slowly.
“All the contacts in my phone are out of order.” He looks around. “Where’s my phone?”
“I don’t know. Mom probably has it. I’m sure your contacts are still in alphabetical order.”
“Every time I call someone they are the only one I can ever call.”
“Maybe you’re going to recent calls on your phone instead of your contacts.”
He sighs, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to go back to jail.”
“You’ve been at a care facility, not jail.”
His eyes pop open. “I can’t go anywhere on my own! It’s jail!”
“Shh . . . calm down.” I rest my hand on his arm.
Again, he closes his eyes. “Just let me die.”
“I find any excuse not to go see him,” Mom confesses over lunch in the hospital cafeteria. “I’m a terrible wife.”
“He’s not himself. You’re not a terrible wife.” I squeeze ketchup onto my burger.
She stares at her salad.
“Eat,” I say. “You’re looking too thin.”
“I’m exercising.” She rolls her eyes.
“That’s great. But you’re not eating. Eat.”
She frowns, picking up her fork. “I don’t regret you or Leah, but I really should have married a younger man. I feel like I’m getting the short end of the stick with the ‘sickness and health’ part of our vows.”
“He’s agreed to raise your baby even though it’s not his.” I take a bite of my burger and smirk.
“Oh, be quiet.” She reluctantly laughs.
We focus on eating, content with letting the harsh reality of Dad’s situation hang over us like a rain cloud. But there is no umbrella to be had. No shelter in sight. The effects will be felt, and there is nothing we can do.
“It’s cancer,” Mom says.
I slowly set my napkin aside and clear my throat. “Excuse me?”
She lifts her teary-eyed gaze and swallows. “There’s a mass on his liver. We’ve known about it, but your father didn’t want to say anything. So we chose to wait.”
It takes a few seconds after she stops speaking for my brain to replay her words. Cancer?
“What do you mean ‘we’ chose? Dad thinks you’re pregnant. He’s not in his right mind to make choices like fighting for his life or giving up. So what you’re saying is you chose. And you didn’t say one fucking word to your adult children? What is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me?” She narrows her eyes.
I feel five years old again, taking my frustration a step too far. But this isn’t a dispute over another hour of TV before bed. It’s a human life. Eighty years is not an afterthought. There’s no room for making the wrong decision.
She picks at the other half of her salad I know she’s not going to eat. “They think it’s hepatocellular carcinoma. It’s spread to his bones. We can get a second opinion, but—”
“Then we should.”
Mom doesn’t look at me.
“Right?” I ask.
“How’s your roommate?”
I set my empty plate on the tray and wipe my mouth with the wadded napkin. “Don’t change the subject. You can’t drop this on me, then ask about my roommate.”