Page 123 of When the Smoke Clears

Will should be here.

Someone should have been with you.

I close my eyes, trying to shake the haunting voice in my head. This is Thatcher Landry. Will’s dad.

Will should be holding his father’s hand.

Who held your hand? Nobody.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my thoughts to stay on Thatcher.

Love begets pain. It’s unavoidable.

I avoided it. And now I feel it. And it’s too much.

Thatcher stops breathing, so I squeeze his hand and wait. This is so wrong. Where are Will and his mom? I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t.

After twenty seconds, Thatcher takes another breath. His bony chest rises beneath his Yellowstone T-shirt, pauses, then deflates.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

The man before me blurs behind my tears.

“Someone should have been there,” I say. The words feel raw escaping the back of my throat. But I’m not talking to Thatcher Landry.

I did it, Daddy. I’m a doctor. Mom whistled and cheered so loudly that embarrassment filled my cheeks. All the other parents showed restraint. Not Mom. She was too proud. Maybe she was making up for your not being there.

Again, I squeeze the cold hand in mine, desperately wanting him (only not him) to forgive everyone who should have loved him. He would have loved me. I just know it. With my other hand, I wipe the tears from my cheek. A restrained sob chokes my next breath, and crushing emotions leak through the cracks of my existence.

You would tell me to shrug it off. Not waste time on regret. But I can’t let go until I acknowledge how tightly I’ve been holding on. If I let go, the loss is real. The hollowness in my chest is real. Your death is real.

My life with him passes before my eyes.

How tiny my hand felt in his.

The way he tried to restrain his smile every time I giggled.

The first time he let me fly my own kite.

The pride in his eyes when he knew I was smarter than him and everyone else.

The picture in my head is so clear, it feels real . . . but it wasn’t.

None of it was real.

“I’ve had so many thoughts.” I wipe more tears, my words barely a whisper. “But you are by far the greatest thing I’ve ever imagined.” I release his hand and cover my face, body racking with sobs as everything I built over a lifetime comes crashing down. The weight of the rubble crushes my identity.

“So sorry to disturb you. I’m going to give him a bed bath, if that’s okay?” The nurse’s aide interrupts my thoughts. “Do you want to step out of the room?”

I quickly wipe my face while she’s still behind me, and I stare at Thatcher. Will should be here.

“No. I’ll stay,” I murmur.

The young woman waits until I gather enough of my senses to slide the chair away from the bed. She eyes me.

“I’m a doctor,” I say. A doctor with red, swollen eyes.

Her expression softens, and she nods. His breaths are numbered, and that number is small. But she cleans him, gives him a little dignity, even in death. There are not enough wings for all the angels who care for the dying.