Page 2 of Wake Me Up
“I think I’ll stay in here for now, babe.” He wheezes a few times, but tries to hide it. “Could you walk out slow so I can get a good look at your ass?”
“Mr. Talmage!” she whispers loudly. “Your son is right there.”
When they turn toward me, I jerk my thumb toward the hallway. “I’m going to go do my homework now.”
“Tripp, wait,” he says.
I’m stopped once again by my father’s voice, and my mom quickly heads toward me, patting my shoulder.
“He needs to talk to you, sweetie. Please, just go sit next to him.” Her eyes bore into mine, and I can feel the desperation inside of them.
I want to take off running. I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say because it’s probably goodbye.
Knowing how important this is to my mother and seeing my dad lying helpless in his bed, I nod. “All right,” I utter, earning me a small but genuine smile from my mom before she ducks out of the room.
And then … it’s just him, me, and the machines he’s hooked to.
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I slowly walk toward him and stand beside the bed.
Jerking his chin toward the chair, he wiggles his body around a bit to sit up a little straighter. “Sit. Please.”
Exhaling, I swallow and lower myself into the chair. I’m not one who backs down from much, but right now, I’m scared. I’m scared to look at him. Scared to talk to him. And I’m even scared to touch him because he’s so fragile.
“Whatchu been doing, son?” he drawls. “Besides trying to avoid your old man.”
He tries to make it sound teasing, but I know there’s sadness too. I don’t want to lie to him, but I also don’t know what to say.
“Just been, you know, busy with school.” I stop, pulling my hands out of my pockets, and look down at them.
The silence is incredibly loud, and I don’t know how to make it better because I don’t know what to say.
“Tripp, can you look at me, buddy?” he says, and just like that, a lump works its way into my throat and puts my composure at risk. “Please?”
My eyes lift, and I stare at the stranger in front of me who has taken my father’s—the strongest man I know—body and replaced it with this sick person who doesn’t have enough life to even get up without help. But the softness that’s always been in my dad’s eyes—a look that told me I could always tell him anything—it’s still there.
The cancer didn’t steal that too at least.
“I know this is hard for you.” He speaks in a whisper. “And I know coming in here and seeing me like this isn’t easy.” He shakes his head. “I fucking hate it.” He grits his teeth, and his fists clench. “I’m sorry about my language, but I’m so angry, Tripp.”
His entire face crumples, and he sucks in a breath quickly. Tears well in his eyes, and he reaches his hand out. I look down at it for a second before I lift mine and bring it next to his.
His hand folds over mine, and his gaze holds my own for a moment before he speaks again. “It’s okay, Tripp. You don’t always have to be so tough.”
My lip trembles, but I try to fight it by swallowing down that damn lump that’s only growing bigger. “Dad, I …”
My vision grows blurry as my eyes fill with tears and my nose begins to run. There’s no stopping these emotions now. I’ve suppressed them for months, and here they are, bubbling to the surface when my dad feels his worst.
“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s okay, bud. I know. I know this isn’t fair. I know you’re scared. I know you’re trying to keep it in for me and for your mama.” He stops, his lip quivering. “And for Pea too.”
I don’t say anything. Even before he got sick, I was a kid of few words. Now, I have nothing to say at all. Words seem like they’d be useless at this point. And I know if I spoke—if I even just said a sentence to tell him how afraid I really was—I’d lose it. I’d fall apart, and he’s not strong enough to put me together.
This isn’t like when I fell off my bike and broke my arm. That day, he was there, ready to scoop me up and carry me inside. This isn’t like the time I tried football and ended up with a concussion, and he was there to lift me off the field.
I can’t burden him with my pain, knowing he has his own. I’m not supposed to cry to him and make him use what little energy he has to make me feel better either. I want to tell him I’m okay and that I’ll take care of the girls—Mom and Pea—for him, but I can’t do that either because I can hardly take care of myself.
I’ll never be the man he is. His shoes are too big. I’ll always come up short.
“I love you, Dad,” I croak because it’s all I can muster up. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been around more.”
