“Is your mum sick?” I ask, giving him a sad smile.
“No, not Mummy, my big sister.” He looks up at me with big, innocent, brown eyes. “She gowes to the sky soon.”
Shit. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
The door opposite us opens in a rush, the woman freezing on the threshold as her face drops in relief. “Zander, in here now. You know you’re not to run off,” she says, her hand on her chest.
He looks back at me, rolling his eyes, and it takes me back to the days I spent at my mother’s bedside. I never knew how important those final months were, always in a rush to get to the Montgomerys to swim in the pool.
“My fault, sorry,” I say, standing to apologise to the boy’s mother. “Hey, thanks for showing me your car. It’s super cool, mate.” I put my knuckles out and he bumps his against them. “Good lad.” I give him a wink and leave the hospital.
* * *
The car issilent as we pull up to the estate. It’s not an uncomfortable silence like before, though; it’s just two men reflecting, unable to communicate the right words out loud. Dr Sarnmer is optimistic that they will find a donor quickly, but it doesn’t take away the unease that roots itself in my gut.
“Come with me, son,” he says, waiting a beat before getting out of the car.
I rub my hand over my face before pulling open the door.
My mother’s grave is on the east side of the property, where she has a garden filled with all of her favourite flowers. I push through the gate and trudge through the overgrown grass, keeping my eyes on my now wet Prada loafers as I lower myself to sit beside my father on the bench.
“Is it bad that I want it to take me?” he says after a minute.
I frown, surprised at his confession. “Dad, I... Fuck.”
He chuckles beside me. “Come on, Mason, watch that language.” He stares out at the acres of land on the estate. “She wasn’t afraid of dying, you know. I didn’t understand at the time, how she could be so accepting when I was petrified for her to go. She knew she had people waiting for her, her parents, grandparents. I get it now.”
I sit quiet, fighting against the lump in my throat, unsure of what I should say.
“I need to get some things put into place, maybe next month we could sit down together and go through it all. So I know I won’t need to worry.”
“Wait until you hear more from the doctor, Dad. God, you say it like it’s no big deal. Scarlet will lose her only parent,” I mutter.
“So will you, Mason.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. Focus on getting better—for Scar.”
He nods his head in agreement. “Do you remember the summer of ninety-nine? You and Scar were on the meadow—”
I frown as I cut him off. “I told her Father Christmas wasn’t real, and she hit me round the head with the shovel.” He drops his head back, laughing. “I remember it well.” I scoff.
“Fourteen stitches,” he says, shaking his head.
“How about when you watched Jaws with Elliot and then wouldn’t take a bath for a week because you were too afraid a shark was going to come through the wall?”
My lip lifts on one side. “You wouldn’t believe how badly I believed that would happen.” I stare down at the ground, reminiscing. “What song was it? That Mum would play us on the piano?”
He looks at me, caught off guard by my question. “‘Imagine’ by John Lennon,” he croaks out.
“Yes! How could I not remember that?”
His eyes move to her gravestone. “She would be so proud of you. I am so proud of you.” He pauses for a moment, breathing in the damp English air. “I’m not afraid. She was my world, and like her, I dread leaving you and your sister, but I can accept it. I need you to as well, and I need you to be there for your sister when the time comes.”
“You know I will be.” My eyes begin to burn, and I clear my throat into my fist. “Stop talking like you’re going to die tomorrow, they said they will find a donor.”
He clasps my knee, squeezing to comfort me in the only way he knows I will allow. “Maybe, son, maybe.”
* * *
