“Yeah. It’s kind of cozy out here now.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were on the phone. You feel better after talking to him?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe. It doesn’t make it okay, though.”
“Nothing’s gonna make this okay. Not for a long time. Come on.” Jonah holds a hand out for me.
I take it and let him pull me to my feet.
And I can’t help but think that it’s Jonah who makes me feel better.
Or, at least, he makes me hurt a little bit less.
Chapter 24
My dad’s dressed and sitting beside his bed when Mabel and I knock.
“Hey . . . How are my girls?” he murmurs, his gray eyes flickering to mine.
“Ready to whoop your butt tonight. And don’t think I’m gonna let you win,” Mabel says with a smile that isn’t nearly as bright as usual, but is there nonetheless. She wanders in ahead of me, dragging her sneakers along the dull linoleum floor.
“I’d expect nothing less from a shark like you.” My dad’s lips twitch. “Did your mom drive you guys here?”
“No, Jonah did. He had to get his stitches out anyway.”
My dad thumbs the collar of his jacket. “Well, that was good timing, then.”
“What’s this?” Mabel picks up the white folder sitting on the bed.
“Oh. That’s just some paperwork I’ve got to go through. Nothing interesting,” he says, smoothly plucking it from her grasp in a way that makes me think he doesn’t want her seeing it at all. “Hey, kiddo, why don’t you go and grab yourself something at the cafeteria.” He pulls a bill out of his wallet. “We’ve got another few minutes before the nurse comes back.”
Mabel snatches it up eagerly. “You guys want anything?”
He waves her away. “I’m good.”
I shake my head and smile, watching her skip out the door.
Awkward silence lingers for a long moment, as I lean against the wall and my father fumbles with the folder in his hands, then casts it aside. What’s it like to be him right now? To know your clock is almost up?
“Kinda thought you might be on a plane, heading back to Toronto.”
“No.” As angry and shocked as I was—as I still am—oddly enough, that thought never crossed my mind. “How are you feeling today?”
He takes a deep breath, as if to test his lungs. “Better.”
More awkward silence.
“I called Mom.”
He nods slowly, as if he knew I would. He doesn’t ask what she said, though, or how she took it. He probably can already guess.
“And I canceled my flight.”
He sighs and starts shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do that, Calla. I’d rather you go back home with only good memories. Not with what’s coming.”
“Well, I’d rather you go to Anchorage and try to slow this down, but neither of us is going to get what we want, are we?” I step closer, to take a seat on the bed. “Are you scared?”
He looks down at his hands. “Scared. Angry. Sad. Full of regret. A little bit of everything, I guess.”
I hesitate, but then reach over to place a tentative hand on top of his, absorbing its warmth.
What do you know? My mom was right. We do have the same knuckles, the same finger lengths, and, beneath my gel tips, the same short nail beds.
It’s a moment before he reacts, placing his other hand over mine. He squeezes. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I really wish it wasn’t going to end this way.”
“But it is what it is,” I say, echoing his words from that first night. My eyes stray to that folder again, to the HOSPICE label and the tagline, Providing End of Care Support to You and Your Loved Ones.
A painful ball in my throat swells. “So, what needs to be done?”
“Ah, don’t worry about—”
“No, Dad. There’s no avoiding this anymore. Besides, maybe talking about it will help me to start wrapping my head around it.” How the hell do I do that? I’m twenty-six years old. Two weeks ago I was drinking martinis and struggling to find the perfect captions to go with pictures of my favorite shoes. I didn’t even know this man outside of my imagination.
Now I’m about to help him prepare for his death.
He purses his lips. “I don’t want to die in a hospital, if I can help it. There was a lady here earlier who gave me that pamphlet. She’s going to come out to the house next week and talk about options at home. Pain relief, that sort of thing.”
“Okay.” He’s going to be in pain. Of course he is. How much pain, though? What’s that going to be like to watch? Will I be able to handle watching it? I swallow the rising fear, push it aside. “What else?”
“The funeral arrangements, I guess,” he says with reluctance. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t bother, but I know Agnes will need it. I don’t want anything fancy, though.”
“So . . . no to a gilded casket and string quartet?”
He makes a soft sound that might be a laugh. “Definitely a pass on those.”
“Okay. What else?”
“I’ve already started the ball rolling with the lawyer so, that’s taken care of. I’ll be leaving most of my money—”