“You okay?” Kevin sat down beside him. “Come on. You said you could handle it.”
“I’m good. I just need a second.”
In that moment, he understood two things: It was all ending, and Sawyer was wrong. In the greater scheme of things, dads mattered a whole lot.
“Take off your shoes,” Kevin whispered. “My dad sleeps most of the time and we don’t like to wake him.”
Pull yourself together, Francis ordered himself. It’s worse for Kevin.
With a deep breath, he stood, forcing his voice to be strong. “Sorry, man. It just hit me.”
They padded down the hall in search of Kevin’s mom. They found her in her study, standing by the window, her arms wrapped protectively around her body. She was staring out the window at the tall trees that pushed up against the house like sentries. Francis saw her before she saw him. My god, she’s lost a lot of weight. It shocked him.
“Mom, Francis is here,” Kevin said.
Mrs. Croyden turned around slowly, her face wet with tears, but she seemed unaware that she was crying. “Hello. Francis, we’ve missed you around here.” Suddenly her arms were wrapped around him. The tears he’d been choking back flowed freely.
“Oh, Francis. I’m sorry. I know you love him. I know it’s impossible. Thank you for coming.” She released her hold and held him at arm’s length. Her eyes were tired and bloodshot, her skin gray.
Kevin’s mom had been a beautiful woman. Francis used to have a crush on her when he was younger. She’d aged a hundred years.
Still she managed a genuine smile. “I’m so happy to see you. Kevin, why don’t you take Francis in to see your dad before dinner? He’s been waiting. Don’t stay very long, though,” she added. “He’s tired today.”
“Worse?”
“A little, honey, but he’s excited to see Francis.”
“He’s in the den,” Kevin explained to Francis. “We moved him in there when he couldn’t make it upstairs anymore.” Francis followed his friend across the hall and waited while he tapped on the door. “Dad? Francis is here to see you. Can we come in?”
“Please do!” Mr. Croyden’s voice was weaker than Francis remembered. But the enthusiasm was still audible.
Kevin pushed open the door and entered quietly. Francis paused before following him. Mr. Croyden sounded frail. He hadn’t expected that, not from a man known for his hearty voice.
Francis looked around the large, once-familiar den with a sinking heart; he hated this room the way it was now. At least the books remained. Still, he missed the thick Persian carpets and despised the functional hospital bed. The air smelled stale and sharp, like strong cheese and mouthwash. Beside the bed was an IV stand. A solid, no-nonsense nurse greeted the boys with a bright smile. “Come in! Come in.” She turned to her patient and said, “We’ve got visitors.”
The frail form under the covers shifted. “I may be dying of cancer, but I can still see. I’ve asked you to refrain from using the plural when referring to me. All of my senses remain intact, for the moment.”
The nurse pursed her lips. “Of course,” she snapped. Francis smiled to himself. Kevin’s dad hadn’t changed all that much.
Kevin rushed to his father’s side. “I scored three goals in practice.”
“That’s my boy. Outstanding, son. Give me a big hug.”
Francis positioned himself on the other side of the bed. He wanted to be as far away as possible from the nurse and the tools of her trade. He waited for Kevin to disentangle himself from his dad’s embrace before he spoke. “Hi, Mr. Croyden. It’s so good to see you.”
“Francis!” Mr. Croyden’s voice was strained, but he smiled, and the smile reached his sunken eyes. “There you are!”
Francis stuck out his hand. Mr. Croyden laughed weakly. “Let’s not stand on formalities. I think we’ve known each other long enough to merit a hug. I’m so pleased you’ve come.”
Mr. Croyden’s body felt like it might break in Francis’s arms, but the man still knew how to deliver a strong bear hug. “Now, if you’ll move a few feet to your right, I can have a proper look at you.”
Francis complied. He thought he’d been ready to see Kevin’s dad, but nothing could have prepared him for the skeletal figure beaming up at him from the hospital bed. Only his bright, kind eyes hadn’t changed.
Mr. Croyden must have seen his distress because he said, “Stop chomping on your top lip. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. You look the picture of health.” He coughed, regained his breath, and continued. “I hope your game went as well as Kevin’s.”
“It was a practice, and no,” Francis mumbled, unable to get over his disbelief at seeing him so shrunken.
“I can see you’re a bit tongue-tied.” Mr. Croyden pushed himself up into a semi-seated position, using pillows for support. The nurse stepped in to help, but he waved her away. “Damn it,” he winced. “I’m fine to sit up on my own.”
Francis looked away, but not before he saw the fine blue veins that bulged just beneath the paper-thin skin on Mr. Croyden’s hands.
“Kevin, if you don’t mind, I want a private word with your friend. Could you give us a few minutes alone?”
“Sure, Dad. Can I get you anything?”
“You’ve brought me Francis. Thank you.” After a spasm of coughing, his face relaxed.
Don’t leave me, Francis wanted to shout as Kevin disappeared out the door.
“I know this is horribly awkward, Francis, and I’m sorry. However, time is of the essence and I’m glad for the chance to say good-bye privately.” He gestured for Francis to sit down on the bed. “And I’ve a favor to ask of you.”
“Not good-bye.” A lump rose in his throat. “Not good-bye,” he repeated.
Kevin’s dad reached out and patted his arm. His hand shook with the effort. “It hurts to move,” he explained, “but that’s got nothing to do with you. This is my journey. Francis, I know how hard this is for you. We’ve been good friends, you and I, over the years. I’ve watched you grow into a fine young man.” He paused, his breathing labored. “Forgive me. Even talking has become something of a challenge.” His body shook with another spasm of coughing.
Francis waited until he’d finished. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. C…I mean, you are a second father to me…I don’t know how to say good-bye.” He sniffled and tried to hide his emotion with a cough.
“Of course you don’t. Thank you for your honesty. And you are a second son to me. Now listen to me.” His forehead creased with the effort to speak. “When I go, which will be soon, it’s going to be exceedingly difficult for Kevin. I don’t have to tell you how close we are. The favor I am asking of you is simple: Be there for him. Talk to him, talk about me. It will help him. Remind him of all we’ve done together. Keep the memory of me alive, because he’s going to be angry with me for leaving. It will be easier to go if I know he has a real friend.”
He paused. “And most importantly, I know I can count on you both to grow up to be the right kind of men.”
His head sank to the pillow. His eyes closed and he sighed heavily. His breath became impossibly loud, drowning out the sound of all the medical technology humming in the background.
Francis took his hand and squeezed gently. “I will. I promise, but…it’s just…you can’t give up.”
“No,” Mr. Croyden whispered. “There’s a difference between giving up and accepting something. I know I can’t win this one, but I’m not afraid. Make sure Kevin knows that, and remind him of how much I loved him. Being his dad was my greatest gift and my greatest accomplishment.”
“I will. I’ll tell him. I promise.”
“Live well, Francis. Do that for me.” He opened his eyes. “Go ahead. Say it. I need to hear it.”
“Good-bye, Mr. C.” His voice caught in his throat. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Fra
ncis.” Mr. C seemed to be shrinking before his eyes, but he managed another smile. “Bon voyage is how I prefer to put it.”
“Bon voyage,” Francis whispered. He sat very still, holding Mr. Croyden’s hand until the nurse tapped him on the shoulder.
“He’s asleep,” she said. “He won’t wake up for a few hours. It’s time for you to go.”
“Bon voyage,” he breathed.
Francis left the room with a heavy heart and found Kevin slouched at the kitchen table. A steaming plate of roast potatoes sat untouched in front of him.
Beside Kevin, his mom moved her food slowly around her plate. When Francis walked in, she looked up. “We were just waiting for you. Sit anywhere. It’s all very casual at the moment, I’m afraid. Help yourself.”
Francis pulled out the nearest chair and sat down. “No apologies.”
He helped himself to the ribs and potatoes, not because he was hungry, but because he wanted to make Mrs. Croyden feel better. It worked.
“What a pleasure to feed someone who actually has an appetite!” she exclaimed. “Kevin and I do our best to eat, but it’s difficult, what with…”
Kevin finished her thought. “With watching Dad struggle to swallow milky oatmeal or mashed veggies without throwing up.” He threw his fork down.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” his mother apologized. “We don’t mean to be rude.”
Francis pushed the meat and potatoes around his plate; the food in his mouth tasted like sawdust. Kevin’s mom didn’t notice, or if she did, she didn’t say anything.
“What did my dad say?”
“Another time.” Francis excused himself. “I’m glad I came, but I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have to go now.”
They seemed as relieved to see him leave as he was to escape. Kevin didn’t get up, but his mother did. She insisted on walking him out. They tiptoed down the hall. Francis held his breath when they passed the room where Mr. Croyden lay dying. He didn’t want that terrible smell to be his last memory.
“Thank you, Francis.” Kevin’s mother opened the front door. Her eyes filled with tears. “It meant so much to my husband to see you one last time.”
Francis ran home, knowing that if he slowed down, if he gave himself a second to think, his heart might break.
Chapter Four
Not much distance lay between the Croyden house and the Sloan house, but Francis had to dig deep just to find the energy to keep running. Kevin was right—how was it possible to imagine a world without his father in it?
When Francis arrived, his mom and his brothers were in the kitchen. Nate and Devon squealed with delight at the sight of their older brother.
“Leave me alone,” he snapped.
His flat voice stopped them in their tracks.
“Oh, honey.” His mom hated to see any of her kids unhappy. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” But somehow the details of his visit with Kevin’s dad poured out of him.
She listened without interrupting, except to gently shush the twins, and suddenly he’d told her everything. When he’d finished, she sat very still, giving him the chance to collect himself.
“Poor Kevin,” she said. “Poor you. It is gut-wrenching for the whole family. Austin is a wonderful man. Is there anything we can do for them—send over some food or anything?”
Restless, Francis got up and leaned against the fridge, his eyes downcast, trying to make sense of it all. “That’s the whole problem, Mom. There’s nothing to do. He’s going to disappear.” Despite his effort, a tear leaked out of the corner of his eye. He swiped at it savagely. Crying wouldn’t change anything.
Alarmed, Nate ran into his mother’s arms. “What’s wrong with Francis?”
Devon burst into tears. “Don’t cry, Francis.” He reached up and wrapped his arms around his big brother’s thigh. “Mommy, make him stop crying.”
“Your brother is sad,” his mother explained. “You cry when you are sad. We all do.” She pulled Nate onto her lap and squeezed him. “Hugs help people to feel better.”
As usual, his mom was right; Francis did feel slightly better after she got up and hugged him too—until Nate started to climb up his leg. Francis shook him off. “Make tracks, little guy. Go and play with Ralph. Throw his ball for him. He’d love that.”
“We don’t want to,” whined Devon.
“Go and play with the dog in the garden for a little while, and I’ll make you a delicious fruit bowl with ice cream,” their mom promised.
After some consideration, the twins tore out the back door, Ralph on their heels.
“Seriously, Mom. Bribery? You must be really worried about me.” Francis sighed. “I’m okay, though.”
“I’ll call Kevin’s mom in the morning to see what we can do to help. Maybe I’ll organize some meals. It’s the least I can do. Just think of all the times Austin treated you boys to restaurants after soccer. I could always count on him to take you under his wing when your dad was away on a long trip. It’s a terrible tragedy. Austin’s been a wonderful dad and a big part of our community. He made things happen.” She rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. “That’s what I’ll do.”
Later that evening, Francis thought about what his mother had said. She was right. Until the cancer, things didn’t happen to Mr. Croyden unless he wanted them to; he made things happen, he was always in control. That must be part of the secret of being a good man.
When his dad called, Francis realized how much he missed him. He wished he could say so, but that would be weird. “Hey,” he said instead. “When are you coming home?”
“A few days. Are you all right?” His dad sounded distracted as usual.
“Not really, Dad. I saw Mr. Croyden today. He’s losing his battle with cancer. He’s days from passing.” He hated himself for sugarcoating it. Passing? Stupid word. He’s not passing anything. He’s dying. Francis cleared his throat. “He’s going to die soon. I’m worried about Kevin.”
“I’m so sorry that I can’t be there with you, but I’m glad you told me.”
“You sound tired, Dad.”
“Long day,” he replied. He tried to stifle a yawn. “I wish I could be home, but I can’t. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than being three time zones away, but I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll call you in the morning before you go to school. Say, eight-hundred hours?”
After that, there didn’t seem a whole lot more to say, so Francis passed the phone to his mom. She reassured his father that Francis would be fine. She added to the details Francis had given and repeated what a terrible tragedy this was for everyone. Before she hung up, she reminded him about his promise to call.
“I don’t see why it’s up to you to make that happen,” Francis scolded.
“You know how hard it is for your dad not to be here,” she replied. “Sometimes harder for him than for you guys.”
At breakfast the next morning, Francis put his phone beside his bowl of cereal. “Dad’s supposed to call,” he told the twins, checking his watch. “In approximately twelve minutes.”
“Yay,” they chorused.
“I get to talk to him first,” shouted Nate.
“I get to talk to him second,” chimed in Devon.
Francis rolled his eyes. “We’ll all get a turn.”
By ten past eight, the phone hadn’t rung. By 8:25, Francis knew it wouldn’t, but he checked again at 8:45—just in case he’d accidently put it on silent mode. Nothing.
“Why don’t you call him?” his mom suggested.
The phone went right to voice mail.
“He must have slept in,” his mom offered weakly. “He does his best.” She straightened Francis’s school tie and gave him a light peck on the cheek. “Off you go, or you’ll be late for school, and don’t forget your lunch. I’ve put a special treat in today.”
“I’m not five, Mom, but thanks.”
“Francis, don’t be too hard on your father. I know he meant to call. He was terribly upset to hear about Austin.”
“Whatever.” This wasn’t the first time he’d been let down by a phone call that never happened. “Guess what…I don’t care. Right now, I’m more worried about Kevin than I am about myself.” He stormed out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “And by the way, I’m going to Sawyer’s after school.”
“Will her mother be home?”
“Mom, we’ve already talked about this. Besides, I’m fifteen. I don’t need a babysitter anymore.”
For the last time, he checked his phone. Nothing from his dad, but there was a text from Sawyer: I saw a huge bumblebee.
They always made him laugh, her random texts. My house 2nite?
C U after school, he replied, surprised at how much he wanted to be with her.
• • •
Hudson Preparatory School was an imposing gray stone building with two towering turrets that overlooked the swimming pool and the park beyond. Francis had worked hard to pass the scholarship exams, and every day he was grateful to be a member of the student body. He loved the wood-paneled classrooms, the quiet study halls, and the soaring stained-glass windows that glowed over the perfectly groomed playing fields. But his favorite place was the library, with its comfy chairs, large sofas, and floor-to-ceiling shelves that groaned from the weight of thousands of books.
It was the perfect spot to study or think or escape the chaos of three hundred boys. Because his first class was a spare, he went there right after assembly, relieved to see that no other students occupied his usual spot, a worn leather sofa behind the bookshelves in the dimly lit history section.
Mr. Haywood Smith, or HS as the boys called him, seemed as old and knowledgeable as the books he safeguarded. When Francis walked in, he gave him a friendly nod. “Good morning, Mr. Sloan. I hope that’s not a phone in your hand?”
Francis stuffed his phone into his blazer pocket. “Of course not, Hay. By the way, I’ve got a spare, so I thought I’d spend some time in my favorite chair.”
Saying Good-bye to London Page 5