Nothing is ever fine in that house. Since Mom died, everything has been exactly the same, but fine isn't a word that remotely describes the situation.
Getting out of the truck is amazing and nerve-wracking. The hospital smell hits me the second we walk in, like antiseptic and bad coffee. It's a smell I became intimately acquainted with when Mom was sick. A nurse with kind eyes directs us to the ER, down a hallway that feels too bright and too quiet at the same time. She points to a curtained area.
I take a breath, trying to prepare myself for what I'll find.
Tom Nash sits propped up in bed with his arm in a sling and his face mottled with bruises that look worse under the fluorescent lights. He looks smaller than I remember, older and more fragile, like a strong wind could knock him over.
"Hey, Scout," he wheezes, like I just dropped by for a casual visit instead of finding him after he was trapped under a collapsed shed for God knows how long. "I wondered when you'd arrive. I-- I didn't mean to scare you."
I can't speak at first. All the words I practiced in the car, the concern and relief and carefully modulated worry, dissolve on my tongue. What comes up instead is something sharper, something I've been swallowing for years.
"I'm okay." He scrubs his hand down the hospital smock, looking embarrassed. "I went out to the shed to grab a step-ladder. Damn thing fell down when I opened the door. One ofthe new neighbors heard the crash and called 911. It's just some bumps and bruises. Nothing serious."
"Just some bumps and bruises?" My voice comes out strangled. "Dad, you were trapped under a shed. How long were you out there before someone found you?"
He shrugs his good shoulder, wincing slightly at the movement. "Couple hours, maybe. Hard to say. I lost track of time."
"A couple hours?" Something in my chest cracks wide open. It's like all the pressure I've been holding back for years has found a fault line. "You could have died, Dad."
"But I didn't." He sounds almost irritated by my reaction, like I'm making a fuss over nothing. "It was a scare, nothing more. I won't have you making a scene, Scout." He purses his lips. "Maybe I should've put Sable down as my emergency contact."
The casual dismissal is gasoline on a fire that's been banking since Mom got sick. I was sixteen and suddenly responsible for keeping our family functioning while she deteriorated. And Dad? He checked out emotionally.
I spent my college years driving home every weekend to clean and cook and make sure he was eating. I've been making this drive every other month for the past eight years, bringing groceries and paying bills and pretending everything is fine when nothing is fine.
"No need to make a fuss?" My voice comes out louder than I intend. The curtain does nothing to contain the sound, but I don't care anymore. The pressure building in my chest hits critical mass and I raise my voice, beyond angry. "Mom's hospital bed is still in the living room, Dad. Her shoes are still by the door. Her medications are still in the bathroom cabinet. You won't change anything, won't fix anything, won't let anyone help you. And now you're lying in a hospital bedbecause that goddamn shed finally collapsed like I've been warning you it would for three years!"
Dad's eyes widen in shock. Silas shifts behind me, becoming a solid presence at my back, close enough that I can feel his warmth. He doesn't interject or tell me to calm down, which is amazing given that every single person on this floor can hear just what I'm so upset about.
"Sable and I have been driving out there every month," I continue, voice rising with every word. "We bring groceries you barely eat. We pay bills you forget about. I clean that house while you sit and watch TV like nothing matters. You're just waiting to die so you can be with her. And I've been letting it go on, because I thought that if I just took care of you enough, if I just did enough, you'd want to live again."
My dad's face crumples. "Scout, honey, I..."
"No." Tears stream down my face now, hot and furious and cleansing. "I'm done. I'm so angry, Dad. You have given up and I've been enabling it. Tiptoeing around, not saying anything. I'm pissed that it took you almost dying for me to say any of this."
The silence that follows is deafening. Dad stares at his hands while his jaw works like he's chewing words he can't spit out. A monitor beeps steadily in the background. Somewhere down the hall, someone coughs.
Dad whispers, "I want to be different, Scout. You know I do. It's just hard."
"That house is killing you," I say. "I won't watch you drown anymore. You're moving to Seattle, somewhere close enough that I can help without destroying myself trying to keep you alive. Sable can check on you, too. You'll get a therapist. You need to start actually living instead of just existing. If I have to drag you kicking and screaming, you're going to let us help you move forward."
My dad looks down, his expression miserable.
When he doesn't respond, I take a breath and force myself to say the rest. "If you refuse to let me help you, if you stay in that house and rot away with Mom's ghost, then I'm done. I won't come back." Wiping away tears, I shake my head. "I can't do it anymore. I won't sacrifice myself the way she did."
I wait for the explosion. Surely this is the part where he tells me I'm overreacting or being dramatic or not understanding what it's like to lose someone. That's what he's done every other time I've worked up the courage to push back on the few times I've tried to broach this subject.
Instead, Dad's shoulders slump in defeat. When he looks up, his eyes are wet with tears tracking down through the bruises. "You're right."
I blink in surprise. "What?"
"You're right." His voice sounds rough, broken, scraped raw. "I've been hiding in that house, in the memories, in the past. Your mom would be furious if she saw what I've become." He swipes at his face with his good hand, smearing the tears. "I don't know how to start over. I'm lost, baby. I forgot how to be anything but the man who lost your mom."
Something loosens in my chest, painful and necessary, like pulling out a splinter that's become infected. "You don't have to figure it out alone. But you do have to try. You have to want to try."
Dad nods slowly, mechanically. "Okay. If you and Sable will help me, I'll try. I promise I'll try."
My eyes well up. "That would mean so much to me."
