I held on to her differently than I used to, gripping her tightly, appreciating the moment like it might be the last one I ever had. Flashbacks of our memories at the cabin came flooding back to me, when we would make s’mores together in front of the fire, make fun of my dad for refusing to make a real burger, even at a summer barbecue. “Yeah…”
My dad rose from the couch and came toward us, his persona different because the second she was in the room, he put up a front, pretending everything was okay even though he was dying a slow death.
I wanted to cry. I almost did. But I knew I had to be strong for her. I had to bottle everything inside and pretend this was a bump in the road and nothing more. “I know you like flowers, so…”
She cupped my face and smiled. “That’s so sweet. And now you’re making dinner.”
“Dad’s favorite—salmon.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. So thoughtful.”
“But I got you some ice cream, though…if you want dessert.”
“Oh, I never get dessert. That sounds so nice. What flavor?”
“Chocolate.”
She squeezed my arm before she stepped away. “You made the right choice.” She looked the same, still had the same bright eyes, the same smile, and anyone on the street would have no idea what she was going through. And knowing her, she would never tell anybody. She would carry the burden alone. She moved to Dad and kissed him before walking to the couch.
Dad smiled at her before she passed. Then his face went slack again, like all he could think about was losing her every single time she was out of his sight.
“Dad, you want to help me in the kitchen?”
He was unresponsive for a moment, like his mind had wandered elsewhere. Then he looked at me and gave a slight nod.
We went into the kitchen, and we started to plate everything. It was salmon with slices of lemon on top with a side of broccoli and rice pilaf. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d make at home, but I remembered everything from growing up here. “She looks good.”
He grabbed the silverware, his eyes down.
“She’s in good spirits, so that’s a good sign—”
He slammed the drawer then looked at me. “Just because someone looks good doesn’t mean they feel good. You have no fucking idea what is happening underneath her skin. Don’t fucking assume anything just because she looks good. It’s insensitive and ignorant. Most illnesses are invisible, and people assume everything is just fine because they don’t look sick.”
I was floored because Dad had never said anything like that to me—ever. He’d never been harsh or aggressive. Even on his worst day, he was a loving man. Watching him lash out at me when I had good intentions was like looking in a mirror…at myself.
All the times Emerson had tried to help me…and I treated her like shit.
All the times she was patient with me because I was going through a hard time…and I took it for granted.
I understood my dad was just stressed out, but it hurt anyway. Now, I had to take his outrage in silence. Now, I had to be compassionate and understanding, and it was a lot harder than I realized. But I did it. “Dad, I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean she’s strong and she’s staying strong, which is good.”
He continued to stare me down like I was his enemy, not his son, not his everything.
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and gave him a squeeze, comforting him quietly, letting the tension pass.
He breathed through the silence then dropped his look, closing his eyes as he let the momentary anger pass.
I rubbed his back as I stood beside him, let him compose himself before we had to go back out there and have dinner. I didn’t know what to say to make things better, how to make this easier for him. I was doing everything I could, but nothing could subdue his pain. I didn’t say everything would be alright because I knew that would piss him off. So, I found something else to say. “I’m here, Dad. Right here.”
I changed my schedule around so I could be there for my parents.
They didn’t ask me to do anything. They didn’t expect me to do anything. But I wanted to be there in case anything ever came up. I worked two days a week and spent the other three at home with my parents—weekends, too.
Instead of knocking, I just let myself inside.
Mom was on the couch watching TV, while Dad worked on his laptop at the dining table.
“I picked up lunch.” I shut the door behind myself then walked over to my mom to give her a hug.
She was bundled up on the couch with her feet on the coffee table, her hair and makeup done, but her clothes baggy and comfortable. “Lunch? You didn’t have to do that, Derek.”