Page 1 of Wake Me Up
Eleven Years Old
Istand in the doorway of the dim room, unable to pull my eyes away from my dad as he lies in the bed. This room used to be a TV room for us kids, but my mom converted it into my dad’s room when he got sick.
Every second, I know he’s slipping further away. It could be today, it could be next week, or it could be a month. That’s what everyone keeps whispering anyway.
The weird thing about death is, there is no way to pinpoint when exactly it’s going to happen. So, all anyone can do is just sit around and wait.
I guess we’re all waiting for that moment to come, if I’m being honest.
The nurses come and go, checking on him what seems like every few minutes, and my mother sits in the chair by his side, just like she has for the past few weeks with hardly any breaks.
My little sister, Penelope, pushes past me, a book tucked under her arm because, just like every other afternoon since Dad’s been sick, she’s going to read to him.
Me? I’ve been avoiding this room like the plague, acting like if I so much as cross the threshold and enter, I’m a goner. I’ve always considered myself a tough kid, and even at just eleven years old, I’m not the one other kids want to mess with. But here I am, being an absolute wimp.
Right now, I don’t feel strong or tough. The man I’ve always seen as invincible—as freaking Superman without a cape—is dying. He’s fading fast, and all I keep thinking about is all the crap I never had the chance to learn from him. I can push-mow the lawn, but I don’t know how to even use the Weedwacker. And one thing about my dad? He likes to have the perfect lawn. Now, his beautifully manicured yard is going to be half-assed because I was too busy being a lazy kid on weekends to take the timeto have him show me how to run his equipment. I’ve watched him shoot a deer and gut it, but I never learned how to do it myself. Even fishing, he’d do most of the work, and I’d just show up when I felt like it. And even if I caught something, he’d help me unhook the damn thing.
He has the answer for everything, but he’s going to die, and that leaves me here … to be the man of the house.
I’m not a man. I’m a kid. An immature, dumb one at that.
“Tripp, why don’t you come sit down?” my mom whispers, waking my dad just as my sister opens her book. “Pea was just about to read a chapter to us.”
My sister is only nine and yet reads at a higher level than even I do. She’s probably going to cure cancer or something crazy, but I’m not going to tell her that—it’d go to her head too much.
“Nah, that’s okay.” I feel my dad’s sleepy stare on me, but I look down to be sure to avoid it. “I have some … homework to do.”
Before my mom can demand me to sit or my sister looks at me with those judging eyes because I’m not the same as her—I can’t sit next to our dad and pretend everything is fine—I start to turn, but that’s when my dad’s voice stops me.
“T-Man,” he says in a dull croak, but it comes out more like a plea. “It’s a good book. It’s about a fisherman who gets lost on an island. You’d really like it.”
I cast a look toward him, and even though he’s lying under the blankets, it’s so clear to see how much his body is failing. His hair is gone from the chemo, which didn’t even work, and his eyes have this glossy, gloomy look to them. His lips are chapped, and he’s aged so many years in a short time. I can’t look any longer, so I look down at the floor.
“I’ll just listen from here for a minute,” I murmur, knowing that he deserves more than this, but I can’t give him anything else because if I do, I’ll fall apart.
I want to be strong for him. He needs me to be strong for him, and so does my mom.
Pea starts to read, confident and clear, but I keep my attention on the floor. I can still feel my father’s stare on me, but I can’t risk looking at him. Every time I do, I crack a little more.
Before he got diagnosed with cancer nine months ago, he wasn’t justhealthy; he was a tank. I’m built just like my father, and because of that, I started playing hockey at a young age.
I’d like to play more, but my mom has been so busy with my dad that it seems like a dickhead move to add another thing onto her plate. But maybe, one day, I will.
What? One day when he dies? You selfish prick.Guilt strikes me, and I swallow harshly in an attempt to listen to my sister read a book that I can’t focus on enough to even know what’s going on.
After about fifteen minutes of her reading, all that keeps running through my head is,Will this be my dad’s last night? And will it be spent listening to this boring story that Pea thinks he loves? God, I hope not.
“Daddy, I have to use the bathroom,” she says sweetly, standing up and setting her book down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, sweetie,” he answers weakly, and I know it took every bit of his energy to say those two words. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
As Pea races past me, my mom stands quickly and leans down and kisses my dad’s head. “I’m going to start dinner, my love. Do you want us to bring you out into the living room, or would you like to stay in here?”
He stares up at my mother, and even through the look of defeat in his eyes, his face lights up. They’ve been together since they were both sixteen. For as long as I can remember, they’ve talked about how, one day, when my sister and I were grown, they’d buy an RV and travel the country.
Now, they won’t get the chance. The most traveling they got to do together was around to my stupid hockey games. Every. Single. Weekend.
I go with random families of kids on my team. Everyone chips in to make sure I get to where I need to be while my mom cares for my dad.
