Page 61 of Ebbing Tides
He hacked and hacked and hacked, fighting for a single gulp of air until his body wrenched and heaved, expelling blood and the little food he’d eaten earlier that day all over my hand and wrist. I stared at the hot mess as he caught his breath, and the longer I looked, the more the ache in my chest grew and grew until I thought I’d double over and die right there on the bed he was supposed to have died in months ago.
I’d been covered in far worse than some blood and puke, but it washisblood. And, no, it wasn’t much, yet it seemed like buckets.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I whispered again, forcing my body to react and take action before this strange, unexplained grief could consume me.
He whined, closing his eyes and lying back against his pillow as I took the soiled blanket from off his withered frame. I wiped away what I could of the blood and vomit, then stuffed the blanket into the hamper by the door. A shadow was on the wall across from where I stood, and I peered out the open doorway to find Melanie standing there, her back to the wall. She met my eyes with a tearful gaze, her hand clutched to her chest.
Had she been standing there the whole time?
There was a silent exchange of sighs and sorrowful glances before I turned back into the room to find another blanket in a pile on the old leather sofa. It was laid over Dad’s body, and he pulled it up to his chin, a look of unimaginable pain twisting his features.
“Can I give you morphine?” I asked, my voice strained beneath the weight of grief and helplessness.
“Why?” he whispered without opening his eyes.
“Because you’re in pain, Dad.”
“Doesn’t that … make you … happy?” He took gulping breaths between words.
I pulled in a tremulous breath and grabbed a disinfecting wipe from the canister beside the bed.
“Why would I be happy about that?”
He huffed a breathless chuckle. “Always … lying. Always … incapable … of telling … the truth.”
Laying a hand over my eyes, I pulled in a deep breath and sighed it out. God, I was so fucking tired of this stupid, stupid,stupidshit between us. This pathetic game. Wasn’t he? How could he not be?
Then I heard a whistling sound, and my hand fell quickly to my side, my eyes landing on him. I was afraid the moment had finally come. But he was still there, still breathing—albeit labored—and I looked around for the source of the sound. It was then I realized his oxygen cannula had fallen off, the prongs no longer situated at his nostrils, where they were supposed to be.
“Shit,” I muttered, hurrying to position the tubing correctly. “Sorry about that.”
I rehooked the hollow plastic around his ears, then tightened it at his chin, securing it in place. “There we go,” I croaked.
He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, a little easier than before, and opened his eyes. They met mine, and we held each other’s gaze longer than we’d had in a long time. Maybe ever. And, oh, there was something there. Something so close to affection that I wanted to reach out and grab it, pin it down and keep it forever. But …
No, maybe I was mistaken. Maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe it was—
“I’ll take the morphine,” he said in a raspy whisper.
I nodded. “Okay.”
Then I hurried to get the little pill. Dad opened his mouth, and I placed it under his tongue to dissolve. Wordlessly, I liftedhis cup for him to take a sip of water, and he pulled from the straw with trembling lips. He dropped his head back against his pillow, weak and withered, and turned until he faced me.
“Do you think I don’t want to die?” he whispered, staring into my eyes. “Do you think I’m not ready?”
“I don’t know what to think about anything anymore, Dad,” I whispered back. “I’ve never known what to think when it comes to you.”
A croak escaped his throat, and one corner of his mouth lifted. He was laughing—trying to. Then, he hummed a short, contemplative sound. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. But you’re not the only one incapable of telling the truth.”
I cocked my head, holding his stare for as long as he’d allow. “What do you mean by that?”
He was silent for a minute. The morphine was fast acting, much faster than the cancer gnawing away at his body, and the recognition in his eyes was swiftly dying.
“Maybe this is my punishment,” he went on, his gaze softening. “To lie in this bed, dying for all of eternity, with you … my boy … oh, my boy … cleaning up my piss and shit.”
My tongue was tied as he sighed and closed his eyes, turning his head and breathing steadily.
His punishment?I thought, narrowing my eyes and turning to leave the room.Why the hell did I have to be drawn into that equation? What the hell amIbeing punished for?
