Prologue
Jesse
Two Months Ago
“I’m here,” I whispered to my father, taking a seat next to his bed, moving the chair as close to him as I could.
Never taking my eyes off his face, I searched for his hand on top of the blanket and wrapped my fingers around it. His skin was so rough and dry. It felt nothing like the hand I held when I was a child or the one that had walked me down the aisle or the one I’d clung to hours after giving birth to my daughter.
My father had been there for everything.
And soon … he wouldn’t be.
My lids squeezed tightly together, fat tears dripping past them, rolling down each cheek. I just wanted a moment without all the beeping from the heart monitor and humming of the ventilator, without the constant smell of alcohol and bleach and antibacterial gel.
That was impossible now.
With all the time I’d spent in this hospital, I should have been used to the sounds and smells. I should have been able to block them out.
I couldn’t.
Even when I wasn’t here, I heard the noises of his room. I saw the starkness of the walls and felt the coldness on my skin. The same thing happened every time I closed my eyes and whenever I thought about tomorrow.
But there was one thing I didn’t hear. The sound of my father’s voice. From him, I got complete silence. I just wished he would say my name one last time, so I could soak the syllables into my memory.
I wanted to hold onto them the same way I was grasping his hand.
It was a wish that would never be granted.
So, what I had to do was listen to his eyes. They had been his voice for a while, and they’d been telling me how tired he was getting, how much pain he was in, how he couldn’t take any more.
He wanted it to be over.
But he was worried about my mom. He loved her with everything he had. He fought to stay here with her.
It had been the hardest eight year battle I’d ever witnessed.
I looked down at his long fingers. His nails were trimmed perfectly, filed until round, and cuticles trimmed. Hands so clean, they always smelled like soap. They still did, even though he’d been in the hospital for weeks. She took care of him no matter where he was.
I’d learned so much from her.
“Dad,” I started, gazing back up to meet eyes the same color as mine, “we’ll take care of Mom, you don’t have to worry about her.” She was right outside the door. She wanted to give me a few moments alone with him, but she wouldn’t go far. “She will have everything she’ll ever need and more. Dad …”
My voice broke as I waited for him to squeeze back. To blink. To acknowledge I was even speaking.
It was far too late for that.
I just … hoped.
My cheeks were suddenly burning, the fire getting worse with every tear that streamed down them. The air was getting thicker, making it more difficult to breathe. My heart was racing so fast, my body shook.
I had to get out of here.
That was the only thought in my head, followed by a feeling I’d never felt before. It was a rottenness in the pit of my stomach, aching so badly it forced me to my feet.
I leaned over my father and pressed my lips to his forehead.
Oh God, this hurts.
“I love you, Daddy.”
As I pulled my mouth away to gaze into his tired eyes, the urge to run became so overwhelming strong that I released his hand and whispered, “Bye, Dad,” before I hurried into the hallway. I immediately saw my mother and said, “I’m going for a walk,” as I passed her.
She knew how hard this was for me.
That was why she let me go, not saying a word as I wandered down the stairs and found myself three floors down in the cafeteria. My stomach churned from the smell. I wasn’t sure what time it was or when I had last eaten. I couldn’t even think about putting food in my mouth. But I needed something to soothe my stomach and to warm me since I was shivering.