Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Of course he understood, and I knew this by the way he clasped my shoulder with a solemn nod.
Now, though, when I pull into my parents’ driveway, the adrenaline high from winning the game and thus the playoff round for my team, starts to fizzle.
There is nothing inside to be excited about. There is no joy. No solace, security, or hopefulness.
Nothing but a dying man.
With a sigh, I get out of my car. It was delivered a few days ago, along with all of my furniture and belongings. I placed all of it in storage, having no intention of getting my own place just yet.
For the immediate future, I want to spend my time at my parents’ home—my childhood home—so I can be as close to my dad as possible. After the hockey season wraps up, there’s no telling if I’ll stay with the Cold Fury or get traded elsewhere. My deal was only for the remainder of the season, and while I’m playing well so far, that doesn’t really mean anything.
Trudging up the sidewalk with my gear bag over my shoulder, I’m both reticent and eager to walk in. I hate looking at all of the medical equipment now taking up the entire living room except for the recliner, loveseat, and TV, but I’m looking forward to spending the rest of the evening with my dad. Time is way too precious.
I unlock the door with my key and push it open slowly. The hinges are well oiled and don’t make a sound. It’s important to be quiet, as my dad’s bedroom is now the living room, and he may be sleeping.
Dropping my bag in the foyer, I creep up the carpeted half-flight of stairs and peek around the banister. My dad’s actually in his recliner watching the news. I move fully into his line of vision, and he startles slightly, not having heard me come in.
His face morphs and a wide smile breaks out. “There’s the hottest new star for the Cold Fury.”
“You were able to come, then?” I ask.
My dad nods with a lopsided grin. “Even walked myself. Didn’t need that damn wheelchair.”
“Awesome.” My return smile doesn’t feel as forced as it’s been. I think I’m learning to relish his good days. I point toward the kitchen. “Hey…I’m going to grab a beer. Want anything?”
“I’ll take one, too,” my dad replies, lowering the leg support of the recliner so he can sit more upright.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s even allowed to have a beer. He’s on some medications, but regrettably, I don’t know what they’re for. Part of me feels I should question him, but another part of me doesn’t want to offend him either.
In the end, I figure my dad knows what’s best for him. His mental faculties are still all in check, and if a dying man wants a beer, he gets a beer.
I nab two ice-cold bottles from the fridge, my mom having thoughtfully stocked a six-pack of my favorite brew. Skirting around the hospital bed in the middle of the room, I hand my dad a bottle before collapsing back onto the loveseat, directly opposite his recliner.
He holds up his bottle. “Cheers, and congrats on an awesome game.”
I lift my beer up in acknowledgment. “Thanks. I’m really glad you were able to come.”
Dad’s expression turns thoughtful, his mouth turning slightly downward. “I missed way too many games while you were growing up.”
I don’t know how to respond because there’s no mistaking the apologetic tone in his words. Does he want some type of absolution?
“Nah,” I drawl with a wave of my hand.
“Missed so many,” he replies sadly, his eyes locking with mine. “You see, son, when you’re faced with death, you reflect on your life, and all of the regrets start pushing their way to the surface. I just need you to know…it’s a big regret of mine. One of my biggest, I guess you’d say. That I didn’t spend enough time with you as a dad should with his son. I always put work first, and well…if I could change that, I would. But I can’t, so the next best thing is to tell you I’m sorry for it.”
“Dad,” I say, but my voice cracks. I don’t want to have this conversation, not because it’s difficult for me to handle, but because I don’t want his last days—precious hours and minutes—to be made up of him feeling bad about his choices.
He holds up a hand, indicating that he wants me to listen. “The hospice nurse spent a lot of time with us, kind of educating us on how it’s going to happen. There’s no telling how fast it’s going to come…the end. I don’t want to leave anything unsaid. So, over the next few days…weeks…whatever I have left, I might want to talk about some of these things. It’s important to me.”