can stop myself, I add, “Your father won’t be.”
I watch my daughter’s eyes, which look like my eyes, get wide and shiny behind her glasses. She opens her mouth but closes it without saying anything, which is exactly what I should have done.
“I’m sorry.” I pull my hands from under the dryer and reach out to touch her arm, but she is out of her chair before I can stop her. The chime on the front door rings loud, breaking the awkward silence left in her wake.
I quickly pay at the front desk, leaving a larger tip than necessary, before I follow CeCe outside. So much for mother-daughter bonding.
Chapter Fourteen
CeCe
Four hours into the drive, I have to pee so badly my bladder feels like it might explode. It wasn’t exactly a good idea to drink a giant bottle of water before we left, and it doesn’t help that the trip is taking even longer than normal since Mom is the one driving.
I pull my headphones off my ears, which are a little sore. I probably shouldn’t have been listening to my music that loud, but I just couldn’t handle hearing Mom, trying to act like everything is happy and normal.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.
“Can you wait till the next rest stop?” Mom asks. It’s a stupid question, because really, what are my options? Squatting on the side of the road?
“Obviously,” I say, realizing too late that I accidentally broke the silent treatment. Until now, I haven’t spoken a single word to her since we left the salon yesterday. I look down at my imperfect pinky nail, where the polish smeared since I didn’t leave it under the dryer long enough. Also her fault.
“Next rest stop, twelve miles,” Dad reads off a sign. “Think you can hold it?”
“I’ll be fine—I’m not a little girl.”
“You’ll always be my little girl,” Dad says, slipping his hand behind the front seat to grab my knee. I raise my feet so he can’t reach.
He and Mom smile at each other in that dopey way parents do, like they’re in on some big secret the rest of the world doesn’t know about.
“Eyes on the road,” I remind Mom.
She looks back at me before turning her attention where it belongs. “Got it,” she says. “And my hands are at ten and two in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” I say, mostly to myself. I don’t think she heard me anyway, because “Happy Together,” our family song, starts playing and she can’t not sing along.
“Imagine me and you,” she sings.
Dad turns up the volume and answers back with the next line. If we have to have a family song, would it be too much to ask for one that came from this century?
Usually, I’d chime in at the chorus, but I keep my mouth shut in silent protest.
Dad either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he just keeps going, singing his modified version of the lyrics about the “girls” he loves, me and Mom.
He reaches behind him again and I bring my knees back in grabbing distance so he knows he’s not the one I’m mad at. He turns back and smiles at me, and he looks so happy that I’m considering joining in at the next chorus to sing about how happy we are together, but then he starts coughing.
“Dad?” I ask at the same time Mom says, “Tommy?”
There’s more coughing. It’s loud and it sounds like it hurts, and it’s the worst noise I’ve ever heard. It makes my own chest ache. He keeps coughing and then he’s wheezing and I’m worried he isn’t able to breathe. What if he stops breathing?
I look over at Mom, who’s looking at Dad and not at the road ahead, where cars are slowing down in front of us.
“Mom, stop!”
She looks up and hits the brakes just in time. Her arm flies across to the passenger seat as if she could protect Dad. He leans into her arm and stays slumped forward.
“Daddy?”
The coughing fit is over, but he’s breathing slow and low. There’s a raspy rattle in his breaths. “I’m okay,” he says.
My eyes meet Mom’s in the rearview mirror. Neither of us says anything, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing: that we’re not ready to lose him.
“You can go now,” Dad says.
“What?” Mom’s voice is shaky and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.
“Go,” he says, louder this time. He sounds angry, and I hope it’s not at me.
Mom stares at