“Other ones,” he mumbles, half asleep. “The same as my mom.”
“What?” I’m fully awake. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer because he’s already asleep.
Forty-Eight
Iwake with renewed resolve.
To find the gold.
To convince Cap to come back to Fontain.
To believe Nash was so drunk last night that he misspoke about the medication he found and what he really meant to say was aspirin because everyone takes that.
With Nash at the office for a few hours, I have all the papers regarding the gold shoved in my purse as I make my way down the dock toward Cap’s boat.
The gold is here; it has to be. I refuse to believe we’ve done all this—that my dad spent the better part of his life doing this and not being with my mom—for nothing. Truth be told, I might not even care about saving the store as much as I do proving it exists and getting him to come back to Fontain with me.
“Dad,” I call, knocking as I climb aboard. My eyes catch on Danimal’s ridiculous boat—he’s added some wind chimes.Weirdo. “I left a voicemail with my colleague Dirk,” I report as I make my way to the hatch. “I’ve worked with him before on old coins. He’ll know more about the logistics of a reward than me.” I slide the hatch open and start my descent into the galley. “And I was thinking that maybe we should revisit?—”
Cap is in his director’s chair, quietly facing the silent western on the TV, but his oxygen tank and cane are scattered across the floor. I step over them to get to him.
“Dad?”
I kneel directly in front of him, his skin so yellow it’s a match for the morning light. His breaths, which never sound good, are especially rattled. Labored. Like every inhale might not be rewarded with an exhale.
“Dad?” My whisper and gentle tap on his shoulder turn to a violent shake with a shouted “Dad!” when he doesn’t respond.
His eyes flutter open. “Rue,” he coughs out. Between wheezes: “Sorry ... kiddo.”
Slipping from his chair, he drops to the floor, and I go with him.
“Dad, no,” I beg. “No, no, no, no.”
I fumble with my phone, dialing 9-1-1 and barely getting discernible information out.
“My dad,” I shout on autopilot, “he’s—I don’t know what he is.” My throat burns. “He’s not breathing right. And his liver’s shot.” I can’t think; I don’t know what’s relevant. “He has one leg. And-and oxygen.”
I give the address of the marina and the nameThe Gypsy, not sure if I conveyed it’s a boat.
“Help is on the way, ma’am,” the woman’s voice says, so calm I want to scream. “Please stay on the line.”
My dad’s head is on my lap, and his breaths are coming at longer intervals.
“Tell them to drive fast.” I end the call. “It’s going to be okay, Dad,” I tell him and myself, hearing the hysteria as I say the words—the lie—on repeat until the paramedics arrive and overtake the boat.
They throw questions at me that I don’t have the answers to.
“What medications does he take?”
Live long enough you get old, kiddo.
“How long has he been like this?”
Some days you want the reminder that there’s more when it’s over.
“Does your father have a DNR?”
