“Put. It. On.”
She tries to hold out but gives up quicker than I expect and slides it over her head.
“There. Happy?” she asks.
“Happier.”
She snorts and heads toward the gate.
Eighteen
Bellamy
My breath is shaky. My hands tremble as I pick up my purse.
It never gets easier.
I was awake most of the night. Coy slept peacefully beside me after we watched movies until after midnight. He was so sweet and gentle and so tender. It was as if he knew I was a nervous wreck.
The insurance papers are tucked in a sturdy manila envelope. They must not weigh half a pound, but they feel like dead weight as I adjust the strap of my purse on my shoulder.
Coy left within the three hours I managed to sleep. I woke up with a pillow laid in his place and my arm draped over the center of it.
He made me promise last night that I tell him when I needed him. He made me swear that I’d be open with him about the things going on in my life. I felt like it was an intentional poke, a specific prod to get me to open up about something in particular. And I wanted to.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
It’s not easy to verbalize the things going on inside my head. It’s as if I let them out, they become real. That the world will latch on to my fears and twist them into some sick reality.
Besides, I don’t know how to talk like that. I don’t know the rules of sharing the things that you know will make you cry.
Do you just spew them out in the middle of a conversation about Netflix? Is it all right to bring them up in the middle of dinner when you’re both concentrating hard on your banana pudding? Do you have to tiptoe around the topic and see if the other person is ready before you go all-in with your deepest fears?
Hell if I know.
And I think the only thing harder than telling Coy that I’m ready to puke at the thought of what the doctor might say today is getting the impression he wasn’t ready for that conversation.
So, I spare myself that potential landmine and just navigate it like I know how—alone.
It’s one less variable to contend with.
I leave the house and lock the door behind me. Every step toward Dad’s feels like I’m walking right into a new puddle of hurt that I’m going to have to traverse, and I’ll have to do it with stillness and dignity. Because I can’t freak out. That would freak Dad out.
I’ll have my cry, if it comes to that, in the shower by myself.
I blow out a breath as I get to the back door. I enter the hallway and go through the kitchen. Dad is sitting in his recliner.
He presses the mute button on the television.
“Hey, there,” he says, wincing as he scoots to the edge of his chair. “You ready?”
“Yup. Let’s go.”
I put a hand under his armpit and help him to his feet. He wobbles a bit before he can get a firm grip on his walker. We make it slowly to the foyer.
“I get my scan today,” he says. “It’s going to be a good day, Bellamy.”
“I agree. Hang on so I can get the door.”
He waits patiently, his knees shaking a bit as I get the door propped open so he can get outside. The walker rattles as it hits the concrete porch, and I vaguely realize that sound has become a constant when I’m with Dad.
And I hate that. So much.
I get the door locked, and then we start toward the car. Dad shivers, the wind seeming extra cold to his frail bones.
“You doing okay?” I ask him. “Want to take a break?”
He nods, wheezing a bit. “Let’s keep going.”
“You know, if you’d let me get you a wheelchair, it would be a lot easier for you.”
“Last resort,” he says, fighting through his lack of oxygen. “Dignity.”
“I know, Daddy,” I say, looking into the sun in hopes it’ll dry up my eyes. “I understand.”
We get to Dad’s car that I pulled up to the sidewalk earlier. I get the door opened. Dad gets himself and his walker turned around so that the back of his legs hit the seat. Then, in a stroke of courage, he drops himself into the seat.
“You did it,” I say, helping him pick up his legs and get his feet on the floorboard.
He looks up at me, his cheeks rosy. “Thank you, sweet girl.”
“Of course.” I give him a big smile and shut his door.
I fold the walker up and get it in the trunk. Just as I get to the driver’s side door, I hear a familiar voice.
“I’ll drive.”
My head whips to the side as Coy comes through the gate. He's wearing jeans with no holes and a gray sweater. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he watches me warily.