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)
Mom stares into the stockpot, slowly stirring, and she shrugs. “Maybe it does. But if I had it to do over, knowing this outcome, I wouldn’t change a thing. Except I might spend more nights in his arms, and less time arguing with him over things that don’t matter.”
I hold a bowl as she ladles soup into it.
“But if you don’t love her,” she says, “don’t give her false hope. She could pass up a guy who loves her in ways you don’t, and that’s tragic.”
I set both bowls on the island and pluck two spoons from the drawer. “For the record, I’ve never held on to her.”
“You’re having sex with her. Women don’t do casual the way men do. Our hearts always trump our minds.”
I blow at the steam swirling from the spoon. “She knows where we stand. She’s going to Baltimore.”
I wait for my mom to respond, to make a case for Everleigh, but she doesn’t.
“I’m just not hungry.” She sets her spoon in the bowl and slides it away before dropping her head into her hands. “We should go back, but I’m scared that if he takes his last breath in front of me, that’s all I’ll remember. Yet I’m just as scared that he’ll die alone.” She lifts her head, eyes filling with tears. “We can’t let him die alone.”
I grimace, catching her first tear with my thumb. Then I nod. “Let me grab my phone charger, and then we’ll go.”
We’ll watch him die.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Everleigh
There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t be here. I left a note for Will and made peace with my decision to leave.
“Can you tell me what room Thatcher Landry is in?” I ask the nurse at the desk while surveying the crowded dining room. Other than the clinking of dishes and the moan of a woman in a wheelchair a few feet to my right, it’s oddly quiet. Minimal chatter. No laughter. It’s a reality check.
“Room thirteen,” the nurse says with a weary smile. Everyone in this place looks exhausted. Maybe the day shift hasn’t arrived yet.
As I walk down the hall of soiled gray and tan carpet, breathing in the stench of death, I pull back my shoulders and tip up my chin. I’m a doctor visiting a patient. That’s it. There’s no need to make this about me.
I poke my head into the room through the partially closed door. There’s an empty bed on one side of the curtain and a man beside Thatcher’s bed on the other.
“Hi,” I say, trying not to startle him.
The middle-aged man with black-framed glasses and thinning brown-and-gray hair turns in the chair and glances back. He smiles while standing. “Hi.” He offers his hand. “Steven Gibbs. I’m Thatcher’s pastor.”
My gaze drifts to Thatcher’s open mouth and partially closed eyes. He’s gaunt and frail. “Everleigh,” I say, shaking the pastor’s hand. “Will’s friend.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thought Will and his mom would be back by now. I have somewhere I need to be in twenty minutes. So . . .”
I nod. “Of course. I’ll sit with him.”
“Thank you.” He steps aside and threads his arms into his overcoat.
I tightly fold my hands in front of me, smile perfectly in place as I wait for him to step toward the door.
“It was nice to meet you, Everleigh.”
I swallow hard and mumble, “You too.”
This is a mistake. I don’t know why I’m here. I’ve never seen this man before now. He’s not my patient, and I’m not his family. Yet, as he vibrates with a haunting death rattle, I ease into the chair and reach for his hand. It’s cold and mottled. Guilt slams into my chest, shattering the barriers around my heart. This feels inhumane. There’s no dignity in this kind of death. Animals are treated better than humans at the end of their lives.
Will should be here.
Someone should have been with you.
I close my eyes, trying to shake the haunting voice in my head. This is Thatcher Landry. Will’s dad.
Will should be holding his father’s hand.
Who held your hand? Nobody.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my thoughts to stay on Thatcher.
Love begets pain. It’s unavoidable.
I avoided it. And now I feel it. And it’s too much.
Thatcher stops breathing, so I squeeze his hand and wait. This is so wrong. Where are Will and his mom? I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t.
After twenty seconds, Thatcher takes another breath. His bony chest rises beneath his Yellowstone T-shirt, pauses, then deflates.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The man before me blurs behind my tears.
“Someone should have been there,” I say. The words feel raw escaping the back of my throat. But I’m not talking to Thatcher Landry.
I did it, Daddy. I’m a doctor. Mom whistled and cheered so loudly that embarrassment filled my cheeks. All the other parents showed restraint. Not Mom. She was too proud. Maybe she was making up for your not being there.