is.”
“So we’re just supposed to let him die!” I can’t believe she’s saying this—that they waited until now to tell me. How could she agree with him? Doesn’t she love him?
“Is it really living the other way?” She’s in pain, that’s clear, but I’m still angry. Why would she let the man she loves die if there’s a way to save him?
I rip my hand from her grasp and bolt down the hall, pushing open the door to the bedroom. My dad lies in the middle of the big bed, sleeping. There’s an IV dripping into a line leading to his wrist and an oxygen tank with tubes in his nose. His pallor is gray and worse than I’ve seen all these months. His breathing is so shallow it’s almost imperceptible.
“Papi?” I say softly, checking to see if he’s sleeping or just resting his eyes.
He doesn’t move. Not even a flinch. I sit on the edge of the bed and hear the wheezing sound from his chest whenever he inhales.
“Why won’t you let us save you?” I whisper. And with that, the tears flow freely down my face. His decision makes me distraught and angry, but I’m not surprised. My father is not the type of man who wants to be kept alive by artificial means, leaving my mother and me to hold out hope, wishing for a miracle for months, or worse, forcing us to make that decision ourselves.
I wipe at the tears on my face and lie down gently next to him, careful not to disturb him. He’s come so far, fought so hard, this cannot be the end.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake with a start. I sit up and look down at my dad, my hand falling to his chest. Relief floods me that he’s still breathing.
A soft knock sounds on the door.
I stand and walk over, swinging it open. A nurse stands there in her scrubs with a bag in her hand.
“Hi,” I say, my voice a little rough from sleep.
“I wanted to check your dad’s vitals,” she says with a small sympathetic smile.
“Of course. I’m going to go change out of these clothes and then I’ll be back.” I step back to let her in and wearily make my way down the hall. My work clothes are twisted and wrinkled around my body and I do my best to right them. When I turn the corner out of the hall, I find Garrin sitting in one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs in the hallway. He’s looking down at his phone, typing away.
“Garrin,” I sigh.
He immediately stands, closing the distance between us, and pulls me into his arms.
The scent of his cologne and the feel of his arms around me are such a comfort, and I weep. I cry into his chest, wetting his suit jacket. He holds me, rubbing a soothing hand up and down my back until I pull away.
“How did you know?” I ask, wiping at the tears on my face.
“Ford called me. So did your mom.”
I nod. I suppose I should have expected that.
“How is he?” There’s deep sympathy in his dark eyes when he uses his thumb to wipe more tears from my cheeks.
“The nurse went in to check on him. I was just going to change.”
“He’s strong. He’ll fight this.”
I press my lips together, determined not to cry again. “I hope so.”
“Believe so.” He cups my cheeks and looks deep into my eyes like he’s trying to give me his strength.
“I’ll try. My mom says there’s not much we can do except wait and see.”
He nods. “I’ll be here the entire time.”
I grip both his wrists. “Will you stay?” I don’t mention a day or a time because… I don’t know. I just want him here.
“Of course.” He leans in and kisses my forehead and I let my eyes drift closed.
He pulls away and my hands drop. “I’m going to go change and then see what the nurse has to say.”
He nods. “I’ll be here.”
In the following days, my dad’s condition worsens. His oxygen and medication have all been increased but aren’t making a difference. My mom and I wait in the hall for the doctor to finish examining my dad, neither of us wanting to see the doctor’s expression while he runs through his checks. Day after day, we’ve stood watching with hope while he examined my dad, and every day, we’ve seen his lips tilt downward, crushing our hope of a recovery.
I told my mom that