Page 4 of Ebbing Tides
Of course, that was also when his doctors had given him less than three months to live … and that was nine months ago.
But the reality was, they could’ve told me he had six years left to live, and I still would’ve agreed to care for him. If only for the possibility that maybe, maybe, maybe,maybehe might care about me in return.
“Why the hell did you bring that dog in this house again?” Dad asked.
“He’s here every day, Dad.”
“Since when?”
“Since we started sleeping here nine months ago,” I reminded him, opening the drawer full of my father’s countless medications. Concoctions meant to combat cough, breathlessness, pain, nausea, anxiety, insomnia, and whatever other ailments might befall him. “You’re due for your next round of meds.”
“Fucking bullshit does nothing.”
I looked down at the rows of prescription bottles, boxes, and bags. “Hey, if you wanna stop taking them, that’s up to you. I’m—”
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Get rid of me faster.”
I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath. It was the same song and dance I’d engaged in every single day for the better part of a year. It was exhausting, demoralizing, and one of the most difficult, stressful things I’d ever endured in all of my forty-eight years of life—and I’d been to war and buried my family, for fuck’s sake!
Grace and Lucy offered on numerous occasions to take over, to take the responsibility off my shoulders, and every time, I declined. They had a far better relationship with our father than I ever did—that was for sure—and it was unlikely he would torment them the way he did me.
But they also had more to deal with in their lives. Kids, husbands, demanding careers as lawyers—both of them. In comparison, my plate was a lot emptier. It was me and Lido and a sleepy desk job in the dead of night. It wasn’t the most taxing life, and so I had the freedom to sleep on the lumpy old couchand devote my time to my father. And apart from work and the odd day of stopping at home to watch the sunset and nap in my bed, that was exactly what I’d done … for nine whole months.
Almost an entire year.
Sure, we had the hospice nurses who came in and out throughout the day, and most evenings, while I was at work, one of my sisters would stop in for a bit, but mostly, it was Dad and me.
Not once had the sick old bastard thanked me for any of it, but I did it anyway. And if I could do it again, I still would. Because that was the kind of man I was, even if I knew he wasn’t.
“Are you hungry?” I asked him, ignoring his commentary.
This was the moment when he typically set aside his anger and spoke to me like a human being. I looked forward to breakfast and dinner because of that alone. At lunchtime, I had a nurse come by to care for him for a few hours while I slept, and most of the time, he didn’t have much interest in midday meals. But lunch and dinner … that was my time to shine, and sometimes, I even think he liked me for it.
He considered the question, as he always did, then bobbed his head in a soft nod. “I think I could eat something.”
“Any requests?”
“Your mother used to make a good grilled cheese,” he said.
“I kinda remember that.” Before she had gone completely catatonic.
“I could eat a grilled cheese. And tomato soup.”
“You got it.” I turned and patted my thigh. “Come on, Lido.”
I made his grilled cheese, thinking of times I’d cooked dinner before Laura came home from work. They were always quick meals, nothing to brag about, but she and the girls always seemed to enjoy it.
The girls …
They would be eighteen now, and what a wild thought that was when they were perpetually eight years old in my mind. Just two little girls, playing with Barbies and baby dolls. It was hard to imagine them grown up now, driving and going on dates. I thought about them—I thought about them a lot—but I never reached out. Never called. Never dropped a letter in the mailbox. Never even looked them up on social media, out of fear that their father would do as he’d sworn ten years ago and murder me.
It’d be worth it, I thought, flipping the sandwich onto a plate.Just to tell them I’m sorry.
I imagined they hated me, and they had every right to. They probably didn’t want to hear from me. But … I thought about it still, and I did it often.
The microwave beeped, and I pulled out the bowl of tomato soup. I brought Dad’s dinner back to him, adjusted his bed with the attached remote, and set him up to eat. He picked up half the sandwich and sniffed it.
“I didn’t poison you; don’t worry,” I said, tucking a napkin into the shirt he wore and noticing the stains on his chest. “Want me to change your shirt before I leave for work later?”
