Mr. Crawley walks around the counter and offers me a hug. Another human touch, pushing me to the brink of destruction. "Is it okay if I stop by to see him today?"
I shake my head against his chest. "I’m sure he’d love to see you.” If he’s awake. If he’s still alive. If he even knows what’s going on.
As Mr. Crawley is tightening his arms around me, I spot a book sitting on the counter by the register. "Can I borrow it for the day?" I ask him, pointing to the old library-looking book.
"Of course. I was just looking something up earlier. I pulled it out of a dusty box in the back room."
"I’ll read it to my dad today. Maybe it’ll perk him up."
"Kiddo, your dad has this book memorized from page to page."
"I know, but—"
"I gotcha," Mr. Crawley says. He releases his arms from around me and retrieves the book from the counter. "Here is the first edition of ‘Everything You Ever Needed to Know About Bourbon.’" Mr. Crawley smiles and hands the heavy book over. Getting a closer look, it appears like it might have belonged to a library, judging by the crinkling plastic cover. "Your father bought this out of the library about thirty years ago. He didn’t want to bother with the bookstore, I guess."
The statement brings a smile to my face. “Sounds like Dad."
I’m pulling into the parking lot of the hospital when my phone rings; when my phone screams:Dad might have died. It’s Journey.
"Hey," I answer, struggling to form a sound through my greeting.
"How far away are you? The doctors want to talk to us as a family." Journey’s voice sounds as weak as mine.
"I just pulled into the parking lot. I’ll be upstairs in a minute."
What is there to talk about?
"Okay," Journey says, ending the call.
There isn’t another way to tell us Dad is dying. They have already made it quite clear. I can hardly think straight when I open the truck door. A repetitive beep alarms me—something is wrong with the car as I step out, but I check the headlights, confused because I didn’t turn them on. I glance around the truck, looking sound’s source, but even the dash behind the steering wheel doesn’t have an icon-warning lit up. I don’t know what’s wrong. I jump back into the truck and clutch the steering wheel. "What?" I scream at the car. "What is the problem?"
I close my eyes, and the tears fall one by one.I can’t do this.
At the peak of my frustration, I dig my nails intothe leather on the wheel, but when I drop my hands, I feel a group of keys scrape against my knuckles.I left the key in the ignition.
I’m losing my mind.
Once I remove the key, the beeping ceases.
I take another worthless deep breath and step back out of the truck before locking the door. My feet feel as though they are on a moving escalator as I absent-mindedly make my way up to the third floor.
Mom and Journey are waiting in the hallway outside of Dad’s room. "Why do we need a meeting?" I ask them. The veins in their eyes are stained, red.
Journey shrugs. Mom shakes her head. "We don’t know."
A doctor I haven’t seen before approaches us and asks us to join him down the hall. We follow without question as we enter a private waiting room. The three of us stand side by side, staring at the doctor, wishing we could tune out whatever he has to say.
"Your husband and father—his vitals are deteriorating faster than we would like. We’re coming to a time where we might face the choice of having to revive him to offer life support or allow him to pass naturally. This question is the worst part of my job, but I must know what your feelings are on signing a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ wavier."
"I don’t understand," Mom says, anger filling her voice. "He’s dying. You’ve said so yourself. Would life support keep him alive?"
I’ve watched too many TV hospital dramas and already know the answer to Mom’s question.
"Life support is not a permanent solution. He would not be conscious. It would only give you a little more time to make your peace with the end of his life."
"That’s selfish," Journey says. "He’s already suffering. Why would we keep him alive so we can have longer with his unconscious body?" Journey is also angry, which is obvious by the pink tinge of her cheeks.
"Every medical situation is different, but we need to ask," the doctor says.
