AUGUST
When we step inside, I’m greeted with the smell of chicken noodle soup. Homemade no doubt; Mom loves soup.
The oriental hallway rug covers the sound of my footsteps that lead into the kitchen. A yellow Dutch oven sits on the stove against the wall, steam rising from it.
Dads in the living room, connected to the kitchen, reading his book while the sound of a piano tinkles in the background. Sunlight pours through arched, floor-to-ceiling windows, making the white walls brighter, illuminating the framed photos.
Dad’s favorite multi-colored wool quilt that Mom made him for his fortieth birthday is covering him while he relaxes on his La-Z-Boy.
My throat tightens as I take him in.
His hands, once strong, are now frail. The tendons have become more prominent. The sweatshirt he bought with my college logo, a sweatshirt that he once filled out, swallows him. And his face—his cheeks are hollow, and he looks exhausted. Fragile. Even his hair is thin and limp instead of full and thick.
We knew what to expect when he started his radiation therapy. They told us the side effects: weight loss, fatigue, possible hair loss, the color of his skin.
My once strong, unstoppable Dad is disappearing in front of my eyes. Someone I don’t know has taken over his body, stealing him away from us. A stranger.
The wooden floor underneath my feet groans, announcing my presence. Dad lifts his head and puts on a brave smile.
“Hey, guys.” When Dad speaks, his voice is feeble.
“Hey dad.” I walk over to greet him with a hug, forcing my muscles to be gentle with him.
“Hi, Mr. Thompson,” Riley says.
“How’s the store?” Dad asks.
I sit down in Mom’s chair that’s next to his, separated by a skinny, circular wooden table, while Riley sits on the couch to the right of us that faces the fireplace.
“It’s okay. Doing the best I can with what I have.”
“I’m sure you’re doing great.” He attempts to straighten in his chair. “You know, I can always help?—”
“Dad—”
He holds up a hand. “Hold on. It can be things I can handle on my laptop.” He cranes his neck and whispers, “I’m bored out of my mind. Your mom is making me watch this reality show about rich women in Beverly Hills. All they do is fight. Why do they fight? They live in Beverly freakin’ Hills.”
My shoulders bounce with laughter. “Your job is to relax and get better. I don’t need another lecture from mom.”
Footsteps echo from the hallway near the entrance.
“August? Is that you?”
“Hey, Mom.” I stand up from the comfortable chair I don’t want to leave to greet her.
“Well, isn’t it a breath of fresh air to see you.” She pulls me in for a tight hug and sees Riley stand up from the couch. “Riley, sweetie, how nice to see you.”
Dad sighs dramatically before sliding his glasses down his nose, peeking over the rims. “Am I not a breath of fresh air anymore, honey?”
She lets go of me and strolls to Dad, holding his cheeks and bending down to give him a kiss on the forehead. “You’re more than a breath of fresh air, honey. You’re my oxygen.”
“Get a room,” Ellie says, coming out of the bathroom in the hallway.
Mom walks past me and slaps Ellie’s arm playfully before on her way to the kitchen. She grabs the ladle next to the pot and stirs the simmering soup, then closes her eyes and inhales deeply at the aroma of chicken broth, butter, rosemary, and thyme.
“How’s everything going at the shop?” Mom asks.
“It’s fine. Dad and I were just talking about it. I’m still working on getting things set up with the new vendors for the launch of the skateboard idea.”
