Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Everleigh frowns. “What if your idea of more is my idea of less?”
“Then one of us is messed up. And it’s not me.”
She grabs my arm, sliding up my sleeve to look at the tattoo of Brandon’s date of death. “People die, but grief is eternal. A mentor of mine once said if you want to live, you have to learn how to survive. But I see the inverse. If you want to survive, you have to learn how to live.”
“Sounds like expensive advice.” I bury my face in her neck, kissing just below her ear.
She giggles, leaning her head to the side. “I’m an extremely valuable friend.”
Hearing her use the word friend should be a relief, but it’s not. I know she’s trying to put on a brave face. Dr. Reichart would tell her to run away from this firefighter without looking back. Run toward someone she can love without feeling guilty for it. An I love you without a delayed I’m sorry. I hope Dr. Reichart (not Everleigh) makes the decision about Hopkins.
“I’m going for a walk.” She kisses the side of my head. “Go be with your father.”
I lift my head. “Are you not coming to meet him?”
“Do you want me to meet him? I got the vibe yesterday that you weren’t too sure.”
That’s a great question. I wanted her to come to Somers because I selfishly wanted more time with her. But I haven’t given the specifics much thought.
“I’m here for you and your mom.” She traces my bottom lip with her thumb. Her delicate touch is indescribable. My heart physically aches when she does it. “I’m here until you send me on my way.” She smirks. “I can see him later, if or when the time feels right.”
Feels right.
She feels right, but literally everything else in my life feels wrong.
“Everleigh,” I say, grabbing her waist as she crawls off my lap. “I . . .” The words catch in my throat. If only I had said them before now, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I didn’t, so they’ll hit differently now, and she’ll think I want her to stay for me. So I slowly shake my head. “Never mind.”
She slides her hand along my neck, thumb caressing along my pulse. “I know you do,” she whispers.
“Mrs. Landry?” A nurse stops us on our way to Dad’s room.
“Yes?” Mom turns as I rest my hand on her back.
The nurse frowns, adjusting her blond ponytail. A tangible feeling of doom radiates from her and makes the hair on my arms stand up. “We were just getting ready to call you. Thatcher appears to have had a stroke this morning, but he hasn’t been examined yet. The doctor should be in within the hour.”
I pull Mom into me, tucking her under my arms as she holds a shaky hand to her mouth. “Thanks for the update,” I say before guiding her to Dad’s room.
The second I open the door, Mom freezes, choking on a gasp. The right side of his face is droopy, and drool is running down his chin.
“Hey, Dad.” I guide my mom to sit in his chair.
He makes a noise, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. I sit on the edge of his bed and gently squeeze his right hand, but he doesn’t squeeze mine back like he’s done in the past.
He’s so thin and frail. I can’t believe how quickly he’s declining. It’s a gut-wrenching feeling of helplessness.
“We should have him transported to the hospital,” Mom whispers.
I glance at her. “You and Dad chose end-of-life care. Are we really going to prolong this?”
She presses a wadded tissue to her nose and sniffles. “I just hate watching him suffer.”
I do, too, but she needs me to be strong, and I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I need to channel my inner Dr. Reichart. “They’re giving him medication for the pain. We don’t know that he’s suffering,” I say as if I believe what I’m saying.
I don’t.
Maybe he’s not in physical pain. However, isn’t mental distress a form of suffering? I can’t imagine trying to talk when my mouth and brain feel disconnected.
Dad tries to say something again, and I hate that I don’t know what he’s saying. What if he’s trying to tell me that something is causing him pain?
“His lips are dry.” Mom stands. “Maybe he’s thirsty.”
I look for his water beside his bed, but it’s gone. There’s a cup with a little water and a bag of oral sponge swabs.
“Where’s his water?” she asks.
I grab one of the swabs and wet it before wiping it along his lips and teeth. “Maybe he can’t swallow well if he’s had a stroke.”
She scoots in front of me, and I set the swab aside and give her room to sit on the edge of his bed at the end of the guardrail. When he doesn’t squeeze her hand, she reaches for his left hand. He reciprocates with that one.