I walked in, crossed the room, and went to the bed. Mom moved her hand. I took my father's. His skin was warm. The skin on the back of his hand was thinner than it had been a year ago.
I sat on the edge of the bed. "It's going to be okay, Dad."
He looked at me, steady. He brought his other hand up, rested it on top of mine, and patted twice. He patted just like that the first time I'd come home from school crying about something I wouldn't now remember.
"Yes, son."
Mom reached up, put her hand on the back of my head, and ran her fingers through my hair slowly. She had been making the same gesture since I was four.
"Beau." Dad called me close and spoke in a hushed tone. .
"Yeah, Dad."
He squeezed my hand and whispered, "Bring me the good whiskey from the house tomorrow."
The doctor opened her mouth. He waved at her without looking. "If I'm dying, Doctor, I'm not dying sober… Beau."
"Yeah."
"The Macallan. It’s the one behind the cookbook."
"Yeah."
He lowered his voice. "Don't tell your mother."
Mom made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and pressed her face into the bed beside his hip. Her shoulders shook. Dad ran his free hand through her hair. Two hands in two heads of hair, mirrored across the bed.
"Vivvie. Behind the cookbook."
She lifted her head, eyes wet. "I'veknownabout that bottle for fifteen years, Henry."
Dad let out a single dry laugh. "Damn it."
She kissed his hand.
Cade hadn't moved from the window.
I stood up. "I'm going to get coffee. Anyone want coffee?"
Theo started to say yes. He looked at my face and stopped. "I'll come with you."
"No."
It came out faster than I'd meant. I softened my voice. "No, I—let me just. Let me just go. I'll be back."
He nodded.
I walked out and went down the corridor, past the nurses' station, the visitors' waiting room, and the elevators withoutlooking at them. At the end of the hall, I found the exit stairs and pushed through them.
The stairwell was concrete, cold, and echoing. I sat down on the second step from the top, with my back against the cinderblock wall, my elbows on my knees, and my hands hanging.
I cried.
It came up all at once. There was no decision to it. My shoulders went forward, and a sound came out of me I didn't recognize. I put both hands over my face. My breath came in ugly pulls. My back shook.
The stairwell was empty, but it wouldn't be empty for long because anyone could come through the door any second and find me. I cried anyway—until the shaking got smaller, until the wet pulls evened out into shallow, regular ones, until my hands and face were wet, and the cinderblock against my back was the only thing holding me up.
I cried until I was empty.
