Page 55 of Ebbing Tides
“Hey, big bro.”
“Hey,” I answered. “Real quick, I have a question for you.”
“Okay …”
“How was Dad last night when you came by?”
She was slow to answer before hesitantly asking, “What do you mean?”
“His demeanor. His … I don’t know …” I groaned out my frustration and turned away from Lido to stir the potatoes and snow peas. “Was he more pissed off than usual? Agitated?”
Lucy laughed, much more carefree in contrast to how I felt. “I mean, this is Daddy we’re talking about. Is he ever not pissed off?”
“He isn’t with you and Grace,” I pointed out, unable to control the sour bite in my tone.
“Well …” She hummed, concentrating. “I guess maybe he was a little, uh … snappier with me than usual. He refused to take his medications.”
My hand stilled on the way to grab the wooden spoon. “What? And you didn’t think I needed to know this?”
“I figured you’d notice that they were still in the pill cup.”
I racked my brain as I pushed the snow peas around in the pan. Had I noticed when I gave him his meds? Had I given him the wrong ones? Or was it the nurse who’d given him his pills this morning and not me at all? Fuck. I couldn’t remember. Every day bled into the other when it came to taking care of my father, and my grip on control and order was beginning to slip.
“Fuck,” I murmured, rubbing a hand over my bearded chin.
“It’s okay,” Lucy said gently. “If his med schedule shifted a little, it’s not going to make a difference, right? He’s still dying—”
“It makes a fucking difference, Lucy. I’m supposed to be paying attention, and you are supposed to be telling me the shit I’m supposed to know!” My voice rose little by little as I spoke, finishing with anger and an odd, unexplained, frenzied desperation to … to … what was I wanting to do here exactly?
She was right, wasn’t she? A little shift in his medications, even a couple of skipped pills, wouldn’t make a difference in his prognosis. He was dying. We weren’t trying to save his life; we were making him comfortable in his final days—despite how many more were left. I knew this. I’dknownit. So, why the fuck was my brain struggling right now to accept it? Hadn’t I already gone through this?
“Max”—her voice was so soft, so gentle—“if you need a break or—”
“He’d never be open to that,” I said, cutting her off harshly. “I’m okay. I’m just … I’m distracted. I’m—”
“Oh my God. That’s right. Oh, Max … I can’t believe I forgot.”
“What—”
“You know, I was just thinking about Laura too.”
Laura.
I turned my head abruptly to stare at the calendar on the wall.Oh God. A strangled, whimpered sound died in my throat as I realized that not only had my sister forgotten the ten-year anniversary of my wife’s death, butso had I.
Somehow, somewhere, in the midst of all the excitement of Melanie coming back into my life and the distraction of Dad’s illness, I had let this day come without so much as thinking of her cold, lifeless body in the snow. The accident my negligence had caused at the cost of not only Laura’s life, but my unborn son.
Fuck, baby, how could I forget? I’m so sorry.
“Out of nowhere, I got this insane craving for that macaroni salad she used to make for barbeques—remember? And she would laugh and say there was nothing special about it, but it wasdifferent!” Lucy was laughing now in that sad way people did when talking about someone lost along the way. “Because she would add … oh my God, what was it …”
“Pickle juice, honey mustard, and apple cider vinegar,” I muttered, pressing my thumb and forefinger to my temples as I silently berated myself for spending the day cooking for another woman and not mourning the one who’d been taken too soon.
“That’s right,” Lucy said, a smile in her voice. “I should make it this summer.”
“You should,” I replied, dropping my hand and staring at the rolling, bubbling water and bouncing potatoes within. “She would like that.”
“Did you go to the cemetery?”
