by Anne Riley
The Paul Clayton I know is tenderhearted, with warm brown eyes that invite you to sit down and tell him all about your day. But this guy? He’s got eyes of stone that threaten to freeze the blood in my veins. I don’t recognize him. And I’m not sure he recognizes me anymore.
“I know,” I say in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well.” He stands up and puts his hands on his hips, then wraps his arms around his torso like he’s trying to keep from shattering. “Lotta good that does me.”
I close my eyes with a sigh. I’ve got to figure out how to break through his walls before it’s too late.
“It’s not fair,” he says, and I meet his cold stare. “I’m his best friend, and he can’t even say my name. He has no idea we used to sit by each other in history class, or that we used to spend every afternoon trying to catch fish in the creek behind his house. How does someone forget everything they ever knew, just like that?”
He stares at me like he’s waiting for an answer.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’m desperate to say something—anything—to make this better, to give him hope. But what could I possibly say? I don’t know how it happens any more than he does.
So I close my mouth and shrug.
“Exactly.” He shakes his head at the ground. “Nobody knows the answer because there isn’t one.”
My heart feels like it’s ripping in two. I want so badly to bundle him up in my arms like I did ten months ago, when he found out that Carter and his mom had been hit by a drunk driver. His face looks a little older now, but as he wipes his suddenly damp eyes with the sleeve of his T-shirt, I still see the trembling boy that clung to me that afternoon while we waited to find out if Carter would survive like his mom.
“I wish he would’ve just died in that stupid wreck,” he mutters.
My insides turn to ice. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do!” His expression is feral. “It’s not fair. Nobody should have to deal with this. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”
I don’t know if he means Carter or himself, but either way, I can’t stop from throwing my arms around his heaving shoulders. He tries to push me back, but I hold him tighter. There’s no way I’m letting go of him. Not now, not ever.
“It’s okay,” I whisper in his ear. “Take a deep breath, all right? Just focus on one breath at a time. In and out. Nice and steady.”
He breathes, but it’s ragged and forced.
“That’s good,” I lie. “Do that again. In and out. Don’t think about anything else.”
I feel him squeeze his eyes shut on my shoulder, and whatever was left of my strength crumbles to dust.
In and out.
In and out.
“I don’t want to see Papa,” he whimpers.
A giant sob rips from his throat, and I stroke the back of his head and say, “Shh, shh,” like Mom did when we were little. Tears roll down my face in spite of my efforts to stop them. Not only has my brother watched his best friend turn back into a toddler, but now he’s got to watch his grandfather die.
The door to Starbucks swings open behind us, and Paul catapults out of my arms. He turns back toward the street and faces the wind. I bet he’s hoping it will dry his cheeks before someone notices. That’s what I do when I cry in public, anyway.
“Vanilla latte,” Dad says, offering me a paper cup with a plastic lid. Mom follows him back to our pile of bags and takes a long swig of coffee while Dad nods at the hospital. “I’ll just text Nana that we’re coming up.”
I tip back my cup, relishing the heat of the coffee as it slides down my throat. Dad fishes his phone out of his pocket with a frown. He pokes at the screen with too much force, as if jabbing it makes him feel better.
“Hang on,” he mutters. “She’s already sent me a message that Papa is worse. And I’ve got two missed calls from her—must not have heard the ring in the coffee shop. Better phone her back.” He gnaws his bottom lip and lifts the phone gingerly to his ear.
Nana answers instantly. I can hear her from where I’m standing, and it sounds like she’s shouting.
“Hold on,” Dad yells into the phone. “Slow down. What are you saying?”
He stares at the air in front of him with his mouth slightly open. Nana’s voice goes shrill on the other end of the line, and I take a step forward. “What is it?”
A knot has formed in my chest. Dad’s strained expression, Nana’s piercing shouts—something is very wrong. Paul turns around, but the animosity in his face has been replaced with fearful curiosity. He chews on his thumbnail while staring at Dad. Mom puts a hand on Dad’s arm, her eyebrows pinching together in the middle.
“Oh God,” Dad whispers and his hand starts to tremble. “Oh God, oh God. We’re coming! Just don’t— don’t let him go yet, okay?”
The knot in my chest jerks tight. “What’s wrong?”
“Philip!” Mom says. “What’s going on?”
This can’t be happening. We have three months. We have three months.
Dad draws in a jagged breath and thrusts the phone at Mom. She fumbles, but manages to keep it from hitting the sidewalk. I look from her furrowed brow to Dad’s paling cheeks.
“He started crashing ten minutes ago,” Dad says, spinning to face the hospital. “He’s somewhat stable now, but they don’t know for how long. We’ve got to get up there immediately.” He steps toward the building, but stops when we don’t follow. He claws at his shirt collar and swallows a stuttered breath. “Now! Let’s go!”
Mom scowls at the phone in her hand. “What do you mean, crashing? He can’t be— I don’t understand—”
Dad bends over and puts his hands on his knees. I want to go to him, but my feet are rooted to the pavement. All I can do is stare at the phone, like Mom. Paul steps toward us, wide-eyed. His chest is rising and falling too quickly. I’ve seen him like this before, when we thought Carter was going to die. He’s panicking. Someone needs to calm him down, but I don’t know how. None of us do.
Dad presses a hand to his stomach like he’s about to throw up. “Everybody leave your bags—no, that’s not right, we should take our bags with us—”
I swallow, blinking back tears. “But he has three months!”
Dad grabs the handle of his rolling suitcase. He jerks it too hard and it flips upside down. His face flushes to a deep red and he throws the suitcase down with a roar of fury.
“Come on!” he screams, hurling himself across the street.
I stumble off the sidewalk and into the road. Mom’s in front of me, and I think Paul is to my right—at least, that’s where he was a second ago. A car horn blares nearby. I don’t know exactly where it came from or how close I came to getting hit. I don’t care.
Papa is dying.
We were supposed to have three months. Papa is dying.
This can’t be real.
TWO
THE FEEBLE OLD MAN IN THE HOSPITAL BED CAN’T BE MY grandfather. Edward Clayton would never let himself get so skinny; his love of red meat would ensure that. And his gray hair would be carefully combed and tucked beneath a black-and-white houndstooth golf cap, not splayed across a vinyl-covered hospital pillow scrawled with DO NOT REMOVE in black marker.
But when I force myself to look at his face—the bump on his nose where a cricket ball once broke the bone, the shallow dimple in the center of his chin—it is Papa. Of course it is.
And everything inside me is splintering to dust.
The throbbing that began behind my eyes on the train has strengthened. I press my fingertips to my temples and make small circular motions, letting out a breath when the pain begins to dull. A chasm of hopelessness cracks open somewhere in my heart, but I force it shut quickly. Better to keep it in check as long as I can. Maybe, if I’m strong enough, I can keep it closed forever.
I don’t remember much about the hospital lobby or the elevator that brought us to the third floor—just blurred images of metal doors, sleek wooden chairs, and a f
aceless receptionist. But now that we’re in the room, every detail takes root in my brain with brutal clarity. Canvas shades cover the single window, sheer enough to allow some light, but no glare. The white linoleum beneath our feet is dotted with green and gray, a subtle attempt at design that makes the floor look dirty. And the smell—part bleach, part stale blankets, all cold and sterile. It’s too similar to the day we put our black lab down and I passed out in the waiting room. Same smell and a similar environment, but on an infinitely worse scale.
Nana is perched on the edge of a chair with her knobby fingers wrapped around Papa’s hand. She’s wearing the periwinkle cardigan Mom sent her for Christmas last year and her coral lipstick is smeared past the corners of her mouth. Tears leave wet trails through her makeup before they drip drip drip onto the white bedsheets. One splatters onto Papa’s wrist and rolls all the way to his elbow. He moans softly as his glassy eyes roam the ceiling.
They said he was stable for the moment, but to me, he looks about as stable as a gasping fish on the bottom of a boat.
Two nurses in light green scrubs stand by the bed with matching grimaces. One of them, a tall girl with red hair that frizzes at the ends, checks the monitors and scribbles on a clipboard. The other, a stout man with black hair and olive skin, hangs a plastic bag full of fluid on a metal pole. He connects it to a tube that runs to a needle in Papa’s arm.
“Morphine,” he explains to Nana in a soft voice. “So he’ll be comfortable.”
Papa opens his mouth wide and shouts, “No! Not the bus!” Then he rolls halfway onto his side and lets out a little yelp. His expression twists and he settles onto his back again, but his legs fidget.
“Nana?” I say, nearly choking on her name. Paul brushes against my arm; he’s staring at Papa with wide eyes. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run a mile. A thick fringe of dark hair hangs halfway over his eyes, but he doesn’t brush it away.
Nana looks up. “Rosie. Oh, thank the stars you’re all here.”
I lurch across the room and loop my arms around her narrow shoulders. Nana’s always seemed young as far as grandmothers go, but she’s aged a lot since last summer. Her gray hair seems faded, her curls less springy, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth more pronounced. How much of that transformation has occurred in the weeks since Papa’s diagnosis?
“I don’t know what happened,” she whispers, clutching Papa’s hand tighter. “I keep saying it’s not possible for something to move that quickly, and they keep arguing—” she puts a hand to her mouth, speaking through her fingers “—that this is just what pancreatic cancer does sometimes.” She sniffles into her palm as fresh tears follow well-worn paths down her face.
“It’s okay,” I say, even though I’m not sure if she’s apologizing, or defending herself, or what. “We’re here now.”
Her hand falls from her mouth and she plants a wet kiss on my cheek. “Thank goodness,” she manages. “I’d be lost without you.”
Her eyes shift over my shoulder to Dad. I know it’s him because I hear his too-loud breathing right behind me. I move to the side, and he slumps into her arms. They say nothing, but the tight line of Nana’s lips and the stiffness in my dad’s back fill in the blanks.
“Edward,” Mom whispers, approaching Papa’s bed. She lays a couple of fingers on his arm, but his eyes stay fixed on the ceiling as he groans. Mom cups a hand over her mouth and squeezes her eyes closed. “How could this happen?”
“I just need to do it again,” Papa murmurs. A thread of saliva stretches between his lips with each word. “Just let me try again. I can do it. It was the bus, it was. Too fast.”
Paul sinks back to the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes are shifty and round, like a child who’s lost his mom in a crowded department store.
“The bus!” Papa cries out, and everyone jumps.
“Yes, Papa,” I say as my heart pounds in my throat. “The bus. It was going too fast, wasn’t it?”
Mom gives me a questioning look as I approach Papa’s bed. I shrug at her; of course I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it’s obvious he wants us to know about this bus. Or at least, he wants us to know about whatever bus he’s picturing in his disease-addled mind. If it will make him happy to think I’ve understood him, then I’ll pretend.
I’ll do anything to ease his final moments.
I settle on the edge of the bed opposite Nana. His hand is smooth and cool when I take it in mine; I don’t think I’ve ever held Papa’s hand before. He turns to me, but I’m not sure he even knows who I am. At least he’s quiet now. I scoot a little closer and bend toward his wrinkled face.
“Can you see me?” I search his watery gray eyes— almost perfect reflections of my own—for any sign of lucidity.
He blinks once, twice. Then he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
“God,” Dad hisses behind me. I turn to find him watching Papa over my shoulder. “He’s still rational.”
I start to stand up, gesturing at my spot on the bed. “Do you want to…?”
“No, no.” Dad waves me off. “You’re doing well. Keep talking to him.”
I sit down and lean close to Papa’s face again. He can see me, but does he recognize me? What if he doesn’t know who we are?
“Papa,” I say. “It’s me. Rosie.”
His lips twitch with a hint of a smile. He opens his mouth like he’s going to talk, but then he sucks in a sudden breath and expels a violent, racking cough. It’s followed by another, and then another, and soon he’s clinging to his pillow while his face reddens, unable to catch his breath.
“Edward!” Nana cries, leaping to her feet. She waves at the nurses, who are already flanking Papa’s bed. “Help him! Do something!”
I stumble off the mattress as one nurse—Roderick, according to the red plastic nametag pinned to his shirt— guides me to the chair next to Nana. The other nurse, the girl with red hair, hurries to Papa’s side and puts her hands on his chest and shoulder.
“Just sit here,” Roderick says, lowering me into the chair. “We’ll handle it.”
I can’t sit down. My grandfather wants to say something to me, and if they can’t stop this coughing fit, I might never find out what it is. I stand back up. “Papa?”
“Please stay back, miss,” the redheaded nurse barks. She makes a shooing motion with her hand, and a burst of anger flares inside me. I open my mouth to retort, but Dad puts his arm around me before I can argue with her.
“It’s all right,” he says, tugging me out of the way. “They’ll get him sorted out. Just give them a minute, yeah?”
His voice is too high. It’s the same voice he uses on Mom almost every time he says he’ll cut the grass. He’s lying, but not just to me. He’s lying to himself. And I can tell by the tension around his eyes how badly he wants to believe it.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. My voice sounds a little shrill, too. Maybe we share the same tell.
The redhead straps an oxygen mask over Papa’s nose and mouth. He rolls from side to side, but the movement grows calmer, and the nurses’ expressions are less frenzied. Finally, he lies still and closes his eyes.
“Is he okay?” Dad croaks. He releases my shoulders. “Or is he—”
“He’s all right.” Roderick turns to Dad with a tight-lipped frown. “For the moment.”
Papa looks like he’s falling asleep. I let out a long, slow breath, and relax my shoulders for the first time since we walked in. The muscles in my neck are tight from being clenched for so long. I roll my head left to right and close my eyes.
When I open them a second later, Papa is staring at me.
Rosie.
The word is a whisper inside my head—sharp, hurried. Papa’s oxygen mask is strapped securely onto his face, yet I’m sure he spoke somehow.
Rosie. Can you hear me?
What in the world is happening?
If you can hear my voice, nod.
No one is watching me. Dad’s opening the cabinets agai
nst the wall and glowering at their contents. Mom’s looking at Papa and wiping mascara from beneath her eyes. Paul’s still leaning against the wall like he’s hoping it will absorb him completely.
I look back to Papa, and I nod.
He opens his mouth a little. No actual words come out, and even if they did, the oxygen mask would muffle them. Still, I hear—feel? see?—more words, louder now: Keep your eyes on mine, and listen to what I tell you.
Two compulsions war against each other in my mind. The first urges me to turn away and accept the fact that I’m having some kind of stress reaction to Papa’s condition. But the other one…
The other one urges me to consider another, more startling, possibility—that Papa is actually speaking into my mind.
Are you listening? Do you hear me?
The words come through a little muddled this time, as if they’re traveling through water. I nod again.
For several seconds, nothing happens.
Then—
A rush of energy like a wave knocking me down at the beach. I clamp my eyes shut. There’s a giant pressure on my chest, a squeezing, like the whole thing is about to implode. My knees weaken and I stagger to the left—
—but then the pressure lets up, and I gasp.
My talent is yours, dear girl. Take it and conquer.
I step back until my heels hit the wall. “What?”
Mom’s eyes snap to me. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice is static in my ears. White noise. And Papa’s voice seems to be slipping away, no matter how much I try to focus on it. Mom’s mouth opens again, and I hold up my hand, palm out. She makes an indignant huffing noise, but doesn’t speak.
A strange word comes: Mortiferi.
I shake my head. I don’t understand.
Mortiferi.
Papa’s eyes widen like watchful sentries on either side of his mask. The nurses adjust the monitor on his chest. The word, whatever it means, seems thin and full of holes.