“Will she!” seven-year-old me demanded, stomping my foot for a reaction.
“She's going to spend some time with the angels, baby. We'll find her again, I promise.”
Dad kissed me quickly, my squidgy cheeks barely indented with how quick he moved. He had to get away; the tears were coming, and he didn't want me to see the pain he felt when he wouldn't be able to stop them.
“But the pills. . . they can help.” I stared at the small plastic bottle on the bedside table, the ones with the name I'd struggled to read all morning, and I looked back at my dad as he moved to close the door, his head shaking.
My tiny palm pushed against the wood, pleading with him not to shut me out.
“Please,” I whispered into the almost closed off room. “Please, let me in. I want to be with you, and I want to be with Mommy. If she's going to be with the angels, I won't see her again for a long time. I need to see her now.”
In that moment, my dad made a decision that many other parents wouldn't. He let me back in, taking my free hand. We all walked back to the bed, where my mother lay, wheezing and struggling to breathe, and he let me stay while he fell apart. While his mother cried, holding only me for support while her son's heart broke as my mother's stopped.
I blinked and blinked again and again and again. My heart raced in my chest, pounding for answers I didn't have. My shaking fingers clasped the pill bottle tighter. My knees vibrated trying to take my weight.
I left the mess where it was, and I rushed from the room.
My left knee ached—having never healed properly from the break Ville caused—as I jumped down the bottom three steps. I swung around the glass banister, it once again, proving its worth.
I heard Woodrow whispering in a raspy drawl, “Quick, get down. She's coming.”
And I saw him gently batting away Bushy Tail, who was, again, sat with his bare ass on the kitchen work surface.
But I didn't care, even as he disrespected the order, staying put, only turning slightly to jump and attack Woodrow's hand in a playful manner.
“I'll clean the table.” Woodrow smiled, staring at me with a chocolate milk moustache that he licked away.
The glass of chocolate milk was in his hand, away from the kitten who had tried to steal it multiple times.
“What are these?” I demanded, holding up the little plastic bottle and shaking it when he didn't answer.
There was a pregnant pause. I heard the “gulp” sound as Woodrow ridded the saliva from his mouth.
“They're pain pills.” He stepped around the island, placing his glass on another countertop.
“They are. They're to help with cancer symptoms!” My anger got the better of me, sending the container through the air. It bounced off his naked chest, clacking against the cold tiled floor. Woodrow's eyes left mine, scanning the floor for any pills that dared to escape, potentially poisoning Bushy when he dared to eat them after he’d tire of flicking them around the room.
That wouldn't happen. The lid was on tight.
Woodrow’s eyes, back on me, watched through asilver stare as I vibrated with anger.
Grief filled my eyes, misery transporting the tears to the surface, encouraging them to rush down my face in a single line fashion. But they didn't listen, eager to get out.
“When were you going to tell me!” My high-pitched squall had Bushy fleeing the room, leaving us alone to argue without the sound of his meow interrupting every two damn seconds.
“Were you even going to tell me, or was I just gonna wake up one morning to find you dead because your treatment has stopped working!” I knew that wasn't always the case, and I knew I should have handled this situation better, but my anger got the better of me.
I’d just got him back. The thought of losing him again—
I couldn’t think of that.
Woodrow stalked back to the island, his feet silent on the wooden floor, his gray sweatpants low on his hips, showing off the body made slender by his illness. He plucked a daisy from the vase and brought it to his nose, taking in the scent. He lowered into a seat, his eyes downcast, hiding the pain he felt behind his long lashes.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Answer my fucking question, Woodrow!” I fumed.
Pretty silver flecks twinkled, focusing on the flower in his hand. “I would have told you. . . and treatment won't fail.”
