Mom looks between Journey and me, and both of us shake our heads. "No, we’d like him to go peacefully."
I don’t know how the words came out of her mouth. I don’t know if I could be as strong as Mom is being—to say what she just said. Is this the meaning of undying love? Loving someone unconditionally until one must decide whether to pull the other’s plug? No one can trulylive happily ever after. It’s all I hear right now.
"With this decision being made," the doctor says, "we will be movinghim to a hospice center down the block where he will be more comfortable. Is this all right with you?" The doctor is speakingguardedly as if to be gentle with his statements, but each word he speaks is more jarring than any word I’ve heard in my life.
"Yes, that will be fine," Mom says.
"Okay, then. We will have him moved within the next few hours. Once we get him moved, we’ll inform you so you can follow."
The doctor leaves us in our silence, giving us nothing more to look at aside from the back of an old oak door.
"I need to make a fewcalls," Mom says. "Why don’t you two relax in here for a bit, and I’ll come back to get you when I’m done."
As if our bodies are programmed to obey, we both take a seat and slouch into the chairs.
Journey stares frozenlyat the door. She’s not even blinking. I wish she would talk, but I know by the look on her face, she will remain in silence for the next hour, doing nothing but stare at the door.
Me, on the other hand, I feel like I can’t sit still. My heart is racing. I’m hot. My chest hurts. My legs hurt. My arms hurt, and I might as well be in a padded room and restrained because that’s what my mind feels like.
I pull out my phone and stare at the display for a long minute, wishing I had someone to talk to, but the friends I had in South Carolina were only neighbors. I didn’t have children to blend into their groups with. We were the only childless house on the street.
My fingers tap against the letters, and the ridiculous name Brett added to my contacts pop’s up. I send a message, but it has nothing to do with my current state of mind.
Me:I am so sorry if I caused you and Parker any trouble last night.
The message shows it has beenread almost immediately, and the three flickering dots are making my stomach hurt as I watch them appear and disappear a dozen times.
Your Teenage Crush:You did nothing wrong. Parker is fine. Please, don’t worry about us.
Me:I wanted to make sure everything was okay.
Your Teenage Crush:Thank you for checking. How are you this morning?
My point of the message was to apologize, not to divulge in my misery. I consider telling him the status—we’re waiting for Dad to be transported to the last location he’ll ever see.
Your Teenage Crush:I assume you’re not okay by your lack of response.
Me:They’re moving him to hospice right now.
As soon as the message is delivered, I wish I could take back the words. I’m feeding the truth. My phone rings right away, showing the name: Your Teenage Crush. I wish these stupid words could make me laugh or cause my cheeks to blush, but all I can do is stare at the incoming call. There’s nothing more to say. My statement shouldn’t have been sent through text in the first place, but now is not the time to discuss the matter out loud, not with Journey here, and not with my heart swelling in my throat.
Me:I can’t talk, I’m sorry.
14
I considered sleepingin this hospice room. I considered climbing into bed with Dad and staying there for as long as I can. "I want you to go home and get some rest," Mom says.
"I want to stay."
"Sweetie, please, you can come back first thing in the morning. You won’t get any sleep sitting in a chair."
I have a feeling Mom wants some time alone with Dad, so as painful as it is, Icomply with her wish. "Okay," I whisper, kissing Dad on the cheek. "I love you, daddy. I’ll be back first thing in the morning, okay?"
"I know, baby. I’ll still be here," he mutters, sounding short of breath—short of life. It makes me wonder if he knows for sure. I’ve often wondered if a dying person has an inkling of their time left. "Go home and get some rest. You look tired."
It’s just like him to worry about me getting sleep when he’s lying in a hospice bed. "I love you," I say again.
"I love you more, beautiful," he says.
