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)
“I’m sorry.” I wedge myself between his knees and pull his head to my chest, stroking his hair. “Is there anything I can do for you or your mom before I leave in the morning?”
Will pulls away. “Don’t . . .” He shakes his head. “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing. I want you to leave, and I want you to stay. I want my dad out of pain, but I don’t want him to fucking die. I’m just, I don’t know.” He swipes the heel of his hand along the corner of his eye.
It’s okay for him to cry in front of me, but I won’t say that. Instead, I squeeze his hand and whisper, “Rest. I’m here for now if you need me. And if you don’t, that’s okay.”
He draws in a shaky breath and whispers “Thank you” on his exhale. Then he scoots back in bed and reaches out his hand. I crawl into bed beside him, and he pulls me to him like a security blanket. Chest to chest. Arms and legs intertwined.
William Landry might break me, but not in the way I ever imagined.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Will
I can’t sleep. This is hell. Mom told me to go home, so I did. For a few seconds, it felt like an out, a breath of relief. But now it feels like I’ve abandoned both her and my dad. So I untangle myself from Everleigh and then touch my phone’s screen. It illuminates: 3:14 a.m.
Tossing an arm over my forehead, I stare at the dark outline of the ceiling fan. Why did I ask her to come? Why did I tell her to leave? Who invites someone to visit amid the death of a parent? She’s probably seen and heard everything, but why can’t I let her see me?
Before the guilt kills me, I slide out of bed and get dressed. Then I press my lips to Everleigh’s forehead as she sleeps. By the time I make it to the facility, the quick cup of coffee from home has kicked in. Mom’s butt is on the edge of the chair, and she’s leaning forward, resting her head on her bent arm and her other hand on his.
Dad’s mouth is open, and his breaths are shallow with a slight rattle.
“Hey, Mom,” I whisper in her ear, lifting her body before she wakes with a stiff back.
Her groggy eyes open, and she lets me help her stand. I hug her, eyeing my dad over her shoulder. He’s so thin and frail. Unrecognizable in many ways. It’s hard to believe he carried me on his shoulders up and down steep trails when I was a young boy. Now he can’t stand on his own or carry his body weight.
“I prayed for him to take his last breath,” she whispers before silently shaking with sobs.
I don’t hold back my tears. How fucking awful is this? Wishing for the man you love to die. When did months turn into days? What happened to weeks? We should still have weeks with him. Now we’re counting breaths.
I stare at his blurry image through my tears.
“Well,” I sniffle, sitting in the chair and pulling her onto my lap, “he’s always been a stubborn man. He’s holding on because you want him to go.”
She laughs through her tears. “I know.”
“You need sleep,” I say.
“I need to be here.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I know she wouldn’t be able to sleep even if I sent her home.
Over the next four hours, we wait, taking turns standing to stretch and walking the hall or using the restroom. Mom texts Leah, but she’s not rushing back. She said her goodbyes and made peace with knowing she might not see him again.
Maybe I should say mine and head back to Missoula. The second that thought pops into my head, I feel a pang of regret. No. I feel like a terrible, weak human being, and an even worse son. Leah has a baby and another child. I have nothing but grief waiting for me to drown it in as much alcohol as possible.
“William.”
I glance at the door. It’s my parents’ pastor. He smiles at Vincent on the other side of the curtain before stepping toward me, so I stand and shake his proffered hand.
“I hope it’s okay that I’m stopping by.”
I nod. “Of course. My mom went for coffee. I actually wouldn’t mind taking a walk.”
“Please.” He nods toward my dad while unbuttoning his black wool coat. “I’d be happy to sit with him. If you and your mom would like me to pray with you, I can do that too.”
I’m not sure what I would pray for because I’m not much of a prayer guy, even though I like the idea of something greater and more powerful than humans. That the end is not really the end, just a “for now,” is comforting.