Syrup drips down my arm as I drop the fork I’d just picked up. “What doctor’s appointment?”
“The one I booked for you. Now hurry up and eat. You’ll need to shower again before you leave. You smell like a dead rat.”
“Faith’s been concerned,but your blood work is fine, as is your ECG. Now, you can both ignore the grief and heartbreak over your dad, and your recent job loss and the breakup Faith told me about?—“
“Faith has a big mouth, and I am not heartbroken—” I one hundred percent am.
“And you can devalue the work you’re doing with Dylan all you like, James, but that multiplied by carer’s burnout—which is real, before you say it—is enough to have anyone struggling to function.”
I roll my eyes, and have the distinct impression Dr. John Lappin wants to sleep me on the back of the head in punishment.
One of my dad’s best friends, he’s been our family doctor since we returned to Boston, so I wouldn’t put it past him. Not only for being sassy but because he’s sick of me. I’ve been in his office at least once a week since … since Cubby left.
“Dad cared for Dylan for years and he never burned anything other than every piece of toast or steak he cooked.”
“You think so, do you?”
“I know so.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I lay back on the stretcher like I’m in an emperor’s robe, not just wearing a thin paper gown, boxers and socks.
In response, John tilts his head to the side, a slow smirk spreading as he scoots the wheely stool he’s on over to his desk. Muttering under his breath, he searches through his drawers. “Uh-huh. Here it is. Your dad had me keep this here for you and Faith because he knew there was a chance Dylan would be living at least part time with one or both of you one day.” He wheels back to me then hands me a manila folder stuffed with crinkled papers. “As your physician and trusted friend, I hope you accept what I’m about to say in the loving and supportive, compassionate way that it’s intended. You’re a fucking hypochondriac pain in my ass James, as so was your dad. Read.” The folder is thrust in my direction, a few papers flittering their way to the ground as I scramble to gather them while lying down.
“What are you talking about? Dad was the most mentally ‘I got my shit together’ kind of guy I ever knew. Also, should I be seeing this? Medical records are confidential, John.”
“I’ve been a doctor longer than you’ve been alive, but thank you for the patronization,James,” he says, delivering the whack to the head I’ve been expecting. “Most of these aren’t medical records, and for those that are, in there you’ll see I have your dad’s written consent to share.”
Juggling papers between my right hand and elbow, I use my left hand to push myself up into a seated position. “Dad really wanted me to see these?”
“He did, Son. I’ll give you a moment to read through them. Just call if you need me, I’ll be in the next office making a call.”
Leaving me metaphorically lodged between happiness and crapping my pants I open the folder and take out a fist full of what look like handwritten letters. The first being dated maybe six months after Mom died.
John,
Thank you for helping me with the property hunt. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know the house is in a great school district, and that it and the yard will be safe for the kids.
In your last letter you expressed such implicit confidence in my ability to do this all alone, but I really think you’ve made a gross overestimation.
Everyday, it feels like another piece of my heart has broken off and floated away. Faith spends her days telling me she’s fine, and her nights crying because she thinks I can’t hear her. Jamie has not ability to hide his emotions and just cries all the time, and Dylan keeps sitting beside or pointing to Heather’s chair like he’s waiting for her to come home.
I don’t know how she did it, John. How did she manage all three kids, and school and their appointments and Dyl’s meltdowns and medications? I genuinely fear I’m screwing up so badly, they’ll be taken off me or I’ll drop dead from a heart attack and leave them orphaned.
Come to think of it, this pain in my chest, and shortness of breath is truly troublesome. Perhaps when we arrive, you can give me a full work over?
Christopher
Good lord, he’s me.
Tears fill my eyes and I continue to read, but only fall when I find one email dated back when I quit hockey.
He insists he doesn’t want to play this season, but I know he’s quit for Faith and Dylan.
For me.
I’m so damn proud of Jamie, and I want to tell him he doesn’t need to sacrifice what he loves. That somehow, I’ll find a way for the burden of it all not to land on his shoulders. But it breaks my heart to admit to you that I can’t, John. Even with your generous offer of assistance. I’m drowning in debt, there’s more out of pockets for Dylan’s supports everyday, and hockey, while it’s hie’s dream, just isn’t an essential right now.
All Heather and I wanted is for them to be happy and in love like we were, and to have successful careers. He’s only a kid and I’ve already failed him. I’m failing them all.
I can only hope he will forgive me one day.
