Page 124 of When the Smoke Clears

She eyes me as I slowly stand and bend down to kiss his forehead. “Whatever comes next, I’m sure it’s amazing. Godspeed.”

As slowly and gently as possible, she rolls him onto his side. Saliva and mucus run down the side of his face. I watch his chest, and after a few seconds, I slide my fingers to his neck. The aide glances at me while removing his diaper.

“Keep going,” I say, despite detecting no pulse.

She continues, and I feel nothing against the pads of my fingers, but inside, I feel everything I’ve refused to feel since I learned the truth.

“When you’re done, call the nurse. Then call his family,” I whisper before I press my hand to my neck as if I can push my heart out of my throat and back down into my chest.

Chapter Forty

Will

As I open my mom’s door in the nursing home parking lot, her phone rings.

“Hello?” she says, taking my hand as she steps down. Tears fill her eyes. “We’re in the parking lot,” she says in a strangled voice.

Crash!

Her phone falls to the ground, and I pull her into my arms. It’s time for me to be strong for her. But it’s hard to keep my knees from buckling as my chest shatters and pieces of my heart scatter into oblivion. No amount of time or foreshadowing prepares one for this kind of loss. I’m so fucking scared to go inside, so I just cling to her as much as she’s clinging to me.

We weren’t there. She doesn’t even have to say the words.

He died alone, or he died with a pastor he saw at Easter and Christmas. What was I thinking? Why was I such a coward? This fucking hurts. I knew when we left, that he might die before we returned. And I think I wanted that to happen because I’m weak.

Time slips away, and at some point, she releases me. I feign strength, picking up her phone with the shattered screen before tucking her under my arm as we take steps as heavy as our hearts toward the entrance.

People talk to us, but I hear nothing.

Mom nods, wiping her nose with a wad of tissue.

But I can’t cry. The pain has paralyzed me, and I cling to denial even though death is the only undeniable thing in everyone’s life.

When we step into the room, Dad’s roommate looks up from his word search, and he offers a raspy “Sorry for your loss.”

The hospice nurse echoes his sentiments.

“Were you with him when he died?” Mom asks, sitting on the edge of his bed and resting her hand on his. “Or was . . .” Her voice breaks. “Was he a-alone?”

“I was told a young woman was with him, but she left right after he died.”

Mom wipes her tears. “A young woman?” She looks at me, and I tear my gaze away from my father’s body.

It’s at peace. He’s at peace.

“Natalie,” the nurse calls past us to the lady in blue scrubs. “Did you catch the young woman’s name who was with Mr. Landry?”

Natalie steps into the room. “Sorry. No. She had dark hair. And she said she was a doctor.”

Mom narrows her eyes.

Everleigh.

I clear my throat. “She uh . . . she was here when he died?”

Natalie nods, eyes wide. “She was holding his hand. Then she kissed his head, and whispered to him.” Her brow tightens.

“What did she say?” I ask.