Dark brown spots dot the skin on his hands, and the veins look like they’re sitting barely beneath the surface. His lips are thin and discolored, and when he smiles, it’s like he can’t quite find the energy to spread it across his cheeks.
My heart splits in half every single day because it never gets easier. I brace for the way my breath stills in my chest and for the pain that actually feels like my insides are being ripped in two.
It comes swiftly, almost buckling me with its intensity even though I experience the sensation every single day.
I absorb it, but then I press on because that’s what I have to do.
“Did you eat today?” I ask as I slip off my shoes and tuck my feet underneath me.
He nods and licks his lips. “I had some tomato soup. The nurse made me some. She said we’re about out of crackers, so can you get some more, please?”
“Absolutely,” I say as happily as I can. “What else sounds good? What about some pears? We haven’t had any fresh pears in a long time.”
He opens his eyes again and peeks out at me. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.
“Pears?” he asks.
“What? It’s better than lemons.”
He tries to laugh, but the movement makes him cough instead.
I grab a throw pillow next to me and pull it against my stomach. I hold my breath and refuse to blink, so I don’t cry.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asks once he gets himself under control.
“What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Don’t lie to me, Bellamy. I might be old and sick, but I’m not blind. Yet.”
I narrow my gaze. It makes Dad smile, which makes me smile.
I consider lying to him anyway, even though he knows he’s right. He doesn’t need my bullshit non-problems when he’s lying there trying to fight cancer. On the other hand, he can read me like a book. If I don’t tell him what’s wrong—or give him some semblance of an answer that he’ll believe enough to let it go—he’ll sit here and fret. And that won’t do either of us any good.
“Coy is home.” I say it as though it’s not something wrong with me but more like it’s a fact. Like the sun is shining or soft-baked chocolate chip cookies are superior to any other cookie in the world.
Dad’s body shakes as he chuckles.
“What are you laughing about?” I ask.
“How’s that boy doing?”
“Oh, he’s as frustrating as ever.”
Dad grins. “I suspect that he’ll always be frustrating. That little shit has caused me more gray hairs than anyone but you.”
“First of all,” I say, smacking him lightly on the arm, “I haven’t caused you that much worry in your life, and you know it.”
He sighs as dramatically as he can manage. “You worry me every morning when I hear your little feet hit the floor. You’ve caused me more worry than ten daughters ever could’ve.”
I gasp. “I think you’re being a little dramatic, Daddy.”
“Oh, I think not.” He closes his eyes and rests for a moment. “Did you tell Coy to come see me?”
I bite back my natural reaction and remind myself that Dad doesn’t know. He thinks my snarkiness when it comes to Coy is just me being me. He doesn’t realize I mean it this time.
“Nope,” I say as casually as I can manage.
“I wish you would’ve.”
“And I wish you would’ve been on my side in my war with the neighbor.” I grin as I shift my weight on the loveseat. “I know you like Coy, but I’m your daughter. Like me more,” I tease.
He rolls his head to the side and looks at me. “Clearly, I’m on your side if there are sides.”
“Not if you’re considering fraternizing with the enemy.”
He laughs. It’s warm and not quite full but full enough to ease a bit of the pain in my heart.
I know he loves Coy in his sweet but misguided way. Coy hung around like a little puppy after Mom died. He bothered my dad so incessantly that his father, Rodney, came over to ask Dad if he should make twelve-year-old Coy stay home.
They created some weird bond that year—some strange connection I never really understood. Dad has always had a soft spot for the boy next door.
But he wouldn’t. Not if he knew that I broke down the night we found out that Dad had cancer and that I was so distraught, so hopeless, that I texted Coy.
I’ve re-read that text so many times that I have it memorized.
Dad has cancer. It’s bad. Really bad. And I don’t think I’m going to make it, Coy. I’m terrified. You told me on the Fourth of July that you would always be here for me. I need you. Please call me.
Unfortunately for me, there was no return text or call to commit to memory. Coy responded a couple of weeks later like he forgot to answer and felt bad about it.