Dad's full-time nurse, Mr. Pruitt, was sitting in the living room drinking a soda and reading a book.
"Hello, Mr. Archer, I didn't hear you pull up." He pushed the book aside to stand up, but I put up my hand to stop him. He sat back. "He'll be a little groggy. I just gave him his morphine shot. I'm afraid he's been in a lot of pain. But he's been eating better these last few days."
"That's good to hear. Who was that I saw leaving the house? A new doctor?"
Pruitt was a big man with thick shoulders and very large hands, considering he provided personal care for people. He shifted on the couch to talk to me better. "No, the doctor was here yesterday. Didn't do much except leave a new prescription. Your father was in an exceptionally foul mood, so the doctor made it quick. But the car you saw leaving was Miss Odenkirk. She comes once a week and sits with your dad for an hour. Then she smiles and says good-bye and sails off in her Mercedes. I think she's helping your dad with final arrangements."
"Final arrangements? Oh right, those final arrangements. I thought he'd already taken care of those. He told me just a short graveside funeral. Maybe he changed his mind. I better head up before he dozes off."
As I climbed the stairs, it dawned on me that I'd never see him standing at the top again, glowering down at me, sharply barking my name to scold me about something. I turned down the hallway to his room and knocked lightly before going in.
Dad's face was small and so pale it was nearly lost in the white pillow. He didn't hear me come in. His eyes were closed, and there was hardly any movement in his face. I froze for a second, watching and waiting for him to take a breath. The sudden tension in my body eased as his chest lifted and fell.
His nightstand was cluttered with medicine bottles, pungent ointments and laxatives. Growing up, I couldn't remember him having so much as a cold or flu. I always figured he was so tough the germs just didn't want to bother with him. But sickness had caught him now, proving my theory about his toughness wrong. Although I had to give him credit. He'd been pretty fucking tough through his whole battle with cancer.
I pulled up a chair. The noise woke him. He stared up at the ceiling for a second as if he was trying to remember who and where he was. Without lifting his head from the pillow, he turned his face toward me.
"It's you, son. I wasn't sure if Pruitt was back to poke and prod me again." He struggled to sit up.
I hopped up and helped move his pillow behind his back as he settled himself against the massive mahogany headboard. He cleared his throat. As he reached for his glass of water, I saw how shaky his hands were. I'd never seen his hands shake. It took me a second to pull my eyes from his trembling fingers. He was a weak, withering shell of the man I knew.
"Pruitt said the doctor came yesterday. What did he say?"
"He said I'm going to die." He sipped some water. I grabbed the glass to return it to the nightstand. "I told him not to write out the death certificate yet because I'm not done being a miserable wretch ."
I smiled. It was rare for him to say something self-deprecating and humorous. I could only assume it was the morphine. It seemed to act somewhat like a truth serum, like the day he'd mentioned the constant sparkle in his mother's eyes.
"How is the business going?" He switched right over to the only topic that truly interested him. What I would have loved to talk to him about was our life together, the few somewhat normal memories I had with him. Like the night we both decided to sit outside and wait for the comet shower the news had promised. We hadn't seen much in the way of star showers, but I could still remember being thrilled as hell that he had suggested it. Those moments were rare, but they stood out like diamonds in a field of coal.
"I'm getting started, but it's going to take time to—"
"Get your reputation back," he interjected.
"That too."
"Tell me what's new with it? Any possible clients? Don't forget, I've added a stipulation to your trust that it has to be up and running with a seven figure a year profit before you can touch your money."
"Yes and I told you I'm not going to let you hold it over my head anymore. I'm leading my own life from this point forward." Already my tone had turned to anger. I sat back on the chair. "S—Dad." I was officially done calling him sir. "Let's not talk business or money. It always ends up in a fight."
"Fine. But I should tell you, I'm leaving this house to charity, cancer research. Not that it'll do me any good now," he said with a terse laugh. "I know this place doesn't hold any sentimental value for you. I figured you wouldn't mind."