weight of our shared grief. We turned on each other and away from each other.
I stare at that chair in the alcove, picturing her with her reading glasses on, the lamp illuminating her notebook, scribbling away with her tongue half out of her mouth in concentration. When she wrote her poems she was consumed. My nan framed several of them and hung them up all over the B&B, so proud.
I close my eyes and think, please understand what I’m about to do and why I have to lie.
I open my eyes when my hand starts to shake, feeling numb. I make a fist, refusing to let this ailment become my focus, and turn toward my parents’ bedroom. I can’t ever stop thinking it in plural.
The door is already open a crack so I slowly push it open.
The room smells sterile and sharp.
My father is lying in bed and sleeping, only a thin sheet over him, covers piled at his feet.
It takes me a moment to recognize him.
I blink and I blink.
My father was always a big man. As tall as me, though he’d always said he was an inch taller, but definitely with more muscles that later in life turned into bulk. They called him The Bear on the rugby field.
But he’s not a bear anymore.
He’s lost an obscene amount of weight. Maybe a hundred pounds. His thick dark hair that he used to dye is now all white and falling out. His skin is pale though thankfully doesn’t look sallow. Somehow he even looks shorter.
I watch him for a moment, my breath held in my throat, hating myself for not coming sooner. I should have come back the moment they said he was sick. I shouldn’t have assumed it was nothing, no matter what they said. What would have been the harm? So maybe we would have fought or maybe things would end worse, but at least I would have seen him before he got to this.
This doesn’t seem fair.
This hurts.
I should get out of here.
I turn and head to the door but then hear a snort and a loud, “Who’s there?”
I slowly turn around and see him squinting at me, fumbling for his glasses that are on the bedside table.
I go over and grab them, handing them to him.
“It’s me. It’s Padraig.”
He takes his glasses from me and puts them on.
“I can’t fall asleep in these, ye know, I keep breaking them,” he says, clearing his throat. I’m relieved to hear his voice is strong, and when he glances at me through his glasses, his dark eyes are bright.
He raises his brow. “So yer here. I didn’t think you’d come,” he says gruffly. “Your nan said ye would but I didn’t believe it.”
“I would have come sooner,” I say quickly. “I just didn’t know. When I talked to Nan she said ye were fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, that—”
He waves his hand at me dismissively. “Yea, any more of this and they’ll be less of that. I don’t need yer explanations, son. You’re here now.”
“Are ye glad I came?” I ask, like a pitiful child.
He squints at me. “It depends. You here to make my last days a living hell or what?”
“Days?” My heart nearly stops. “Nan told you me you had a few good months left, maybe more.”
He scoffs, closing his eyes and removing his glasses. “What difference does it make? Time, it just goes. Every day, it just goes, faster and faster. When yer near the end, whether it’s a few days or months, it’s all the same. All a bucket of shite.”
I’m not about to argue with him about that.
He opens his eyes and turns to look at me. I know I’m fuzzy to him without his glasses but I have a feeling he prefers it that way. He doesn’t really have to see me.
“So ye here for supper or what?” he asks after a moment.
“I’m here for a long time.”
He frowns. “Why? Don’t tell me it’s because of me. I might hang on for longer than ye think. The devil is funny like that.”
I shrug. “We’ll see how it goes. But I told Nan I’d be here and so I am.”
“So noble, aren’t ye,” he mutters under his breath.
“I want to be here.”
“Away with ye. That’s a lie. She guilted ye into coming here and it worked. But ye don’t have to stay.”