"He’s having a good time," I tell Journey. "He doesn’t appear to be suffering right this second, and—"
"This feels like the last meal or something," Journey says, huffing through her words.
"What if it’s not? What if Dad had a chest cold these last few days, and the cancer didn’t get a hold of him as fast as we thought? Maybe he has more time left in him. We can hope.”
Journey refocuses her attention to my eyes. "Mel, the nurse earlier—the one we were talking to in the hallway—they’re making him comfortable, and she said they often see patients have a ‘good’ day before—"
“Well, it doesn’t mean that’s what this is," I snap back at her. "Let’s not close the casket while he’s still breathing. My God, Journey." The pain within me surfaces as a new emotion each time, but this time, it’s pure disgust.
Journey yanks me out of the room and pushes me against the wall in the hallway. "Listen to me," she says. "He didn’t have some kind of cold these past few days. I don’t want to steal your hope, but I don’t want to give you more, either. I realize you live for miracles—rainbows and unicorns, but right now, you have to face the truth."
I feel hollow inside, staring back at the reflective green eyes that match Dad’s and my own. "Miracles happen.” After hearing the words out loud, I feel less confident than she sounded. "You’ll see tomorrow, he’ll be the same way he is today. He has more time in him."
Journey lowers her head and wraps her hands behind her neck. "I hope you’re right, Mel. I do."
I follow my sister back into the room, filled with people who have yet to falter on their fake happiness. Bill is kneeling in front of Dad’s chair, the two having what looks like a heart to heart conversation. I can only imagine the words being exchanged between the two people in this room who have known each other longer than anyone else here. They were neighbors as kids; his father started the barrel business because of my grandfather. Their history is hard to comprehend.
"How are you both holding up?" Brett says, approaching us from behind.
"Melody is in la-la land, and I’m trying to figure out how to walk out of this room tonight in one piece," Journey responds on behalf of both of us before walking away.
I’m still holding my glass of bourbon, and there is still some liquid swishing around on the bottom of my glass. It catches my attention, though I know Brett’s focus is on my face. "Everyone handles pain in different ways," he says.
"She thinks today is his last day, but look at him?" I glance over, seeing the two men share another laugh.
"It might be easier for her to digest this thought and be pleasantly surprised tomorrow if she’s wrong," Brett explains.
"You seem to have a good response to everything.” I steal a small sip from my glass. I close my eyes to focus on the flavors, but my mind is too foggy, and I only feel the burn in the back of my throat.
"I wouldn’t say so,” he replies. "I told you, it’s the mindset I had to live with for a long time."
"How do you move forward after?" I can’t see past the inevitable. It’s like I have built a brick wall in front of a future I could once see so clearly.
"Life continues on and takes you with it. There isn’t a choice in the matter of moving forward. Our hearts are designed to take the pain, but the scars will shield us from the weakness, and eventually, we become stronger beings."
As Brett is filling my head with wise words, I spot our mothers chatting a few feet away. I catch them gazing at Brett and I before they notice me watching. Rather than looking away, they wave with a giddy smile as if they’re admitting to talking about the two of us.
I want to remind them why we’re here, but I guess it’s not necessary.
Nine o’clock rolls around faster than I would have liked, and Dad looks exhausted, slouching more in his chair than he was a couple of hours earlier. He waves Journey, Mom, and me over to his side. "I don’t think I can pull an all-nighter like I used to," he says.
"We were waiting for you to kick us out," Mom says, lightly pinching his chin.
"I better get some rest. Tomorrow will be a big day," he says.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, wanting to laugh at his remark, but hoping there’s something good I don’t know.
"I’m running away from this joint and getting back to work," he says. "The shop needs me."
"Oh, Harold," Mom says, waving her hand at him.
"Dad," Journey says. "You’re not really planning to make a run for it, are you?"
Dad shrugs. "I guess we’ll see. If I feel like I did today, I’m not wasting time laying in a bed, right?"
The three of us are quiet, unknowing of what we should respond with. "Well, if this is the case tomorrow, I will break you out of this place," Mom agrees to his request.
It isn’t like Mom to say something like this. She’s conscientious about following medical protocol.
