Page 69 of When the Smoke Clears

“You don’t want me to sugarcoat it. You don’t want me to shrink you. Will, not wanting to be there when he dies doesn’t make you a terrible son. But intentionally avoiding it or abandoning your mom if she needs you is terrible. And, no, I would never say that to a patient, but you’re not my patient. You’re . . .”

“The asshole who took your virginity and ran.”

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling while simultaneously grinning and wiping my tears. “I was the asshole who didn’t tell you my age.”

“Can you put that in writing? I might decide to frame it.”

My grin fades. “Please let me just say this. Losing a loved one is a profound experience. The people in our lives shape who we are and give meaning to our existence, especially our parents. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t be here. This is your experience. There is no right or wrong, which means regret is unavoidable.”

“Are you charging me for this?”

“No. I called you about Dr. Swan. We’re bartering.” I look at my watch. “But I have to go. I have actual patients.”

“I think you run a glorified daycare with video games.”

“Sounds like jealousy.”

He chuckles. “You might be right. Later.”

“Bye.” I stare at my phone screen for a minute. Then I set it on my desk and flop my head down beside it onto my crossed arms. “I’ve got it bad.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Will

“Hey,” I say, hugging my mom the second I walk into my dad’s hospital room.

Dad rolls his eyes. “Such a waste of time and money. I’m missing work for this.”

Mom releases me and returns to his bedside, resting her hand on his. “You’re retired, dear.” She eyes me. “The tests on his heart came back fine. It might have just been anxiety.”

“What? I can’t hear you,” Dad grumbles.

I feel instant relief, even if Mom seems disappointed. She turns away and quickly wipes her eyes. Why is she crying? He’ll be fine.

“Where did that cute nurse go?” Dad asks.

Mom winces before grabbing her purse and exiting the room. I reach for her, but she pulls away.

“Where’s she going? Bed? She goes to bed so early. What time is it?” Dad asks. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Whatever is causing his mental decline hasn’t gotten better.

“Dad, it’s morning. She’s not going to bed. I think she needs some fresh air is all.” I sit on the chair beside his bed.

“I never cheated on her. I had many opportunities, but I never did.” He narrows his eyes, staring at the whiteboard on the wall below his TV. “Even when I had pennies in my shoes, I didn’t cheat on her. Will you tell her that?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“My daughter sent me cookies. A whole box of chocolate chip cookies.”

“Leah didn’t send them, I did.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I think Leah did.”

I open my mouth to argue, but shut it just as quickly. What’s the point?

He makes a circle with his fingers. “They were little ones. One bite. I ate the whole box.”

“Leah’s the best.” I nod slowly.