Page 48 of Feel Me

I hurry into my childhood home, a classic colonial located on one of the prettiest streets in Bryn Mawr. “Dad?” I call out.

Mae, the woman who used to clean our home years ago, hurries out from the kitchen wiping her hands. “Hello, love,” she says, in her sweet British accent.

I hug her warmly when she pulls me into her arms. I’d reached out to Mae a few days ago to tell her Dad was sick and asked her if she’d consider returning to the states to take care of him. After spending the last few years living in the small English town where she grew up, I thought I’d have to beg her to return. She didn’t hesitate and hopped on the first available flight. But Mae had always been good to us.

“How is he?” I ask.

Tears fill her soft hazel eyes and she forces a smile. “He’s had a rough day, love.”

My hand tightens over the handle of the paper bag I’m carrying. “He seemed okay when I picked him up from chemo yesterday. Tired, but in good spirits. How did he sleep?”

She hesitates to tell me, not because she doesn’t want me to know, but because she doesn’t want me scared. Mae is sweet like that. “He woke up a few hours after you left and spent the remainder of the night vomiting. I gave him some of the nausea medication the doctor prescribed. It helped settle the nausea, but he’s still not well enough to eat.”

“He hasn’t eaten all day?” I ask. My focus travels up the wooden steps and to the second floor.

“He hasn’t. But he’s drinking well and keeping the fluids down.” She squeezes my arm. “That’s a good thing.”

“It is,” I say, though my attention stays on the staircase.

“Have you eaten?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Not yet. I planned to eat with him. I made his favorite . . .” I swallow the lump building in my throat. It shouldn’t make me so sad to describe my father’s favorite foods, but it does. I hate that he’s hurting and so sick. And I hate that the doctors aren’t giving me more than “we’ll see how he responds to the chemo.”

“Melissa?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask. I’m so lost in my thoughts I didn’t hear a single word she said.

Mae looks back at me with all the heartbreak I carry. “I said I can heat up the soup in the kitchen if you’re hungry, but the smell might upset your father’s stomach. Don’t take it upstairs, all right? I don’t want to risk him vomiting again.”

I skipped lunch to handle a case Children and Youth had dropped the ball on, one that had Declan reeling. And I’d missed breakfast because he’d spent the night. I haven’t eaten all day and I was practically drooling the entire ride here, the smell of the Irish stew I threw together wafting through every inch of my car.

But I wanted to eat with my father. Now that I know he can’t eat, and how he’s doing, I’m no longer so hungry. “I’ll just have some juice.”

Mae lifts the paper bag from my hand. “Go up. I’ll bring it to you as soon as I call in a refill for your father.”

I don’t want to take advantage of her kindness and think I should just get my own damn juice. But God, I’m so tired, I’ll take any help that I can.

“Thank you, Mae.” I say, starting up the steps.

She’s such a gift. I wish her time with us hadn’t been so brief. She was only with us a year, but it was such a good year. I broke down when I picked her up at the airport, knowing she’d take care of Dad in my absence.

I reach his door and knock gently. “Dad?”

I poke my head in when he doesn’t answer. He’s lying in bed on an angle, a stack of pillows strategically placed along his back to keep him comfortable. He has a nurse that comes in four times a week, but today was her day off. This was all Mae.

He’s wearing his light blue pajamas that I bought him for his birthday. The thought of him not seeing his next birthday crosses my mind, but I quickly shove away the thought.

The T.V. is on, but his eyes are closed. “Daddy? Are you awake?” I whisper.

“Of course I am. It’s seven o’clock at night.” He frowns with his eyes closed. “Are you calling me old?”

I laugh because he wants me to, not because I feel like laughing. The chemo has turned his once fair skin a horrible shade of gray. I slip beside him. “Mae says you’re not eating.”

He shrugs. “I need to lose weight anyway.”

My eyes skim to his belly. The bulge once so prominent is now almost gone. He hasn’t been the same since the surgery. I didn’t expect an immediate recovery. But this chemo seems to be slowly killing him.

I shrug out of my coat and place it on the end of his four-poster bed, removing one of my hearing aids so I can cuddle against him and lay my head on his shoulder. “When you’re up for it, there’s Irish stew downstairs,” I tell him.

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