Page 91 of Ebbing Tides
“Don’t be. Apparently, she wanted me dead more than he did, so …” I laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Guess I can thank him for that. She was gonna throw me off a damn bridge if he hadn’t taken me in.”
The sadness in Lucy’s eyes was erased by sheer horror. “Oh my God, that’s horrible.”
“I bring out the best in people, I guess,” I joked with a wink.
Grace jabbed a finger into my ribs. “It’s not funny. You deserve happiness, like anyone else.”
“What are you talking about? Iamhappy,” I said with a lighthearted smile. “I have you guys, Sid, and Ricky. And of course, there's Lido. What more do I need? Nah, I’m good, really.”
A look was exchanged between them. One that said they weren't at all convinced of what I was saying. But they weren't me. They didn't know how content I was capable of being—on my own, with my dog, and the occasional get-together with them and their families. I'd existed for ten years like that. I could last another ten, twenty, thirty more—easily.
But do I want to?
Do Ihaveto?
“We should get back in there,” I said, ignoring the doubtful questions in my mind.
Together, we entered the house. Lucy announced she needed to pee, and Grace headed into the kitchen for some water and a moment to think. And I hesitated outside Dad's office with my hand holding the doorknob in a viselike grip.
What if he's already dead?
I'd seen more than my share of dead men, but none of them had been my father. I could force my mind to disassociate on the battlefield, but I wasn't sure I could do the same with the man who had raised me, regardless of how that upbringing had been.
With a whoosh of air released from my open lips, I entered the room. I stood frozen in the doorway, my eyes trained on his chest, waiting for any sign that he might still be alive, and when he took the smallest of breaths, I emptied my lungs with a long, shaky sigh.
Slowly, I took a seat beside his bed and looked at his face. The cancer had eaten away at him over the months he'd been on hospice, stealing piece after piece until there wasn't much left but skin and bones. Yet, somehow, my life had been run on such autopilot that I never stopped to take the time to notice just how frail he'd become. It was hard to see him now as the man I'd once been so afraid of. The man who had beaten me senseless. The man who had killed my first dog. The man who had scared me into running away. He was broken now, feeble and weak. A mere suggestion of what once had been … and it made me sad.
Oh God, I was sosad.
I slumped forward and rested my elbows on my knees. With a groan, I wrapped my hands around the back of my neck.
“Fucking hell, Dad,” I muttered quietly, squeezing and pulling at my flesh. “Goddammit, why did shit have to be the way it was? Why couldn't you have just loved me? Hell, you didn't even need to love me; you could've justlikedme, and I would've been happy. It's all I’ve ever wanted—you know that? All I’veeverwanted was for you to fuckinglikeme, for you to be proud of something I did. But it was never enough. It didn't matter what I did, how many hoops I jumped through, howmiserableI made myself to fucking appease you … it was nevereverenough. God, I'm forty-eight fucking years old. Almost fifty. Jesus, statistically, I have, what, another twenty, maybe thirty years left? There's more behind me than ahead of me, and I’vewastedit. I’ve wasted my entire fucking life on trying to make you happy, and you're gonna leave this fucking world without ever …”
My throat constricted, cutting off my words as my eyes welled up with hot, angry tears. I swallowed against the torrentof emotion and cleared my throat once, twice, trying to chase away the sorrow, trying to befine, but to no avail.
“God, fuck you,” I choked out, shaking my head and swiping at a rogue tear that had weaseled its way from between my lashes. “Fuck you for everything, Dad. Fuck you for lying to me, for making my life a living hell, and for accusing me of killing my fucking wife. Fuck you for wanting me dead. Fuck you for putting so muchshiton my shoulders when I was a kid. But most of all, fuck you for making it impossible for me to leave you. I could never walk away. I could never just walk the fuck away, no matter how—”
On the bed, Dad's hand twitched. It was lying on his chest, curled around his blanket, but suddenly, it shifted and dropped to the bed beside him. With slow, jerky movements, it came closer to where I sat before lying limp at the edge of the mattress. My breath caught in my lungs, and my brow furrowed at the sight of those dry, bony, wrinkled fingers.
I thought about Greg Dumass.
I thought about poor Lizzie Copeland.
I thought about Laura and my unborn son.
All those people I had known, cared about, loved … and they had all died alone. Each and every one of them.
I would’ve given anything to go back and hold my wife’s hand, even as she lay in the frozen world, bleeding out onto the bricks.
What I would’ve given to hold my son, to see his face for all of a moment, even if it were only to witness him taking his last breath.
My palms itched as I stared at Dad’s hand.
His fingers lifted and fell, reaching.
He doesn’t want me, I thought, glancing toward the door and wondering where the hell my sisters were.
“My … boy …” Dad whispered with a chest-rattling wheeze.
