“What are you doing?”
“I ran out of water.” How long ago was that, that I sank to the tub floor and curled my arms around my knees? It must have been a while. I’ve stopped shivering, stopped crying. My hair’s still covered in soap, though the suds have flattened out.
He sighs. “Come on, you can use mine.” He steps into the bathroom and stretches out a hand.
I ignore it, shifting away from him.
“Calla . . .”
“When did you find out?” I ask, my voice oddly hollow.
He settles his big frame on the edge of the tub, keeping his gaze ahead of him, on the vanity doors. He’s still wearing the same clothes, the smell of smoke permeated into them. Last night feels so long ago now. “The same day Aggie told me what was going on, the day you came. I had a bad feeling when I pressed him for details. He was all wishy-washy about the treatment plan, about how many days a week he’d have to be in Anchorage, where he’d be staying. Then he took off and I flew out to get you.” He studies his ragged fingernails intently for a moment. “I got it out of him later that night.”
That’s the difference between Jonah and me, right there. I just accepted my dad’s reluctance to talk about it, because deep down I wasn’t ready to talk about it, either. I was just as happy to avoid the truth that I should have seen coming from a mile away.
“So you already knew, that morning I came to ask for a ride to Meyer’s.” He’s known all along.
His head falls into his hands, his fingers combing through his hair, making it stand on end. “He made me promise not to say a word to you or Aggie. Believe me, I wanted to so many times. I came close last night. But Wren wanted to be the one to try and explain his decision. I couldn’t take that away from him.” He pauses. “You can be mad at me all you want, you can hate my guts and not want to talk to me, but it won’t change the fact that Wren’s going to die, and we’ve all got to figure out a way to come to terms with that.”
“Did you at least try to talk him into the treatment?”
“What do you think, Calla?” Irritation flares in his voice. “Don’t you dare think for one second that you want this to happen any less, or that this is going to hurt you more than it does me, or Agnes, or Mabel. You’re gonna go back to your life in Toronto with a memory of him. Meanwhile, we’ll be here, feeling him gone every single damn day—” He cuts off abruptly, his voice turning hoarse.
“How are you not angry with him?”
“Not angry? I’m fucking pissed! Pissed that he waited so long to get checked out. Pissed that he didn’t quit that shit years ago.” His booming voice fills the small space. It’s a moment before he speaks again, more calmly. “But Wren doesn’t make rash decisions. He thinks long and hard about them. If even the doctors are saying they can only buy him a few extra weeks, then I can’t blame him for not wanting to waste what he’s got.”
“What about the rest of us, who have to sit by and watch?” I ask hollowly. Hasn’t he considered what this is going to do to the people who love him?
“He’s convinced himself that he’s making the best decision for everyone’s sake and the thing with him is, once he’s made up his mind, there’s no turning him around. He’s more stubborn than I am.”
Like the decision he made to let my mom and me go all those years ago.
What is life going to be like around here with him gone, I wonder, as my eyes crawl up the molded shower wall. This little modular house with the tacky ducks felt so empty when I first stepped into it and, while it’s still the same empty little house, I now have memories attached to it, to help fill it up. Of my dad’s soft chuckle carrying through the perpetual silence, of the smell of his fresh-brewed coffee in the morning, of the sound of the floors creaking as he pads down the hallway after saying good night to me. Such little things—tiny, trivial slivers of his life that shouldn’t count as memories—and yet I know they’ll be the first things that come to mind when I think of him here, years from now.
And that’s just within these walls. What about out there, beyond them? “What’s going to happen to Wild?” I ask numbly. Jonah’s not running things until my dad gets better.
He’s running things until my dad dies.
And then what?
Jonah shakes his head. “I don’t know. That’s a conversation for another day. Not today.”
“Why did you even let me waste my time building that website? It was totally pointless. And stupid.”
“No, it wasn’t. You wanted to try and help your dad. You were making an effort to know what he’s been doing around here, all these years.” I feel Jonah’s heavy gaze finally venture over, to linger on my bare skin. He pauses. “What the hell did you do to your feet?”
“I ran home from the hosp
ital in my rain boots,” I admit sheepishly, curling my body tighter, suddenly feeling self-conscious about my nudity, even if Jonah saw every part of me many times over last night. Nothing about this moment feels remotely sexual.
“Jesus. They’re all chewed up. I’ve got a first-aid kit at my place. You need to cover those blisters.” He reaches for my towel, holding it out for me. “Come on. Water truck doesn’t come until tomorrow. If you want plumbing, you better grab your things and stay with me.” After a moment, he adds a soft, “Please.”
Finally, I accept the towel from him.
Knowing that I need to be near him tonight, running water or not.
The bathroom door opens as I’m rinsing face wash from my cheeks and nose. “Almost done, I swear.”