Page 50 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

Very worried.

“Come on,” I say, clapping my dad on the shoulder and opening the rear door of the Subaru for him. “We’d better get going.”

Three hours, one bag of saline, and roughly fifteen hundred dollars later, we’re back home.

Mom’s settled in bed. It doesn’t take her long to nod off. A trip to the ER is always exhausting for all of us, but especially her. And we’ve had more than enough of those to last a damn lifetime.

“Dehydration,” my dad mutters as he stands at the open refrigerator door, staring without seeing into its cold depths. “I can’t believe it was just dehydration.”

“At least that’s all it was, right?” I say from the kitchen table. The bright light pouring from the open fridge catches on peaks and valleys of his face. He’s got so many more wrinkles than he did even a year ago.

Cancer is a fucking awful disease. It decimates everything it touches. Including those who aren’t even the ones who have it.

Familiar guilt bites at my heart. Guilt that Dad was shouldering the burden of Mom’s illness all on his own while I was living the co-ed life.

But they didn’t tell me, I remind myself even though the truth never makes me feel any better. They should have, and they didn’t.

Even so . . . part of me can’t stop thinking that I should have known. I should have sensed something was off. I should have asked more questions during my brief forays home from Yale instead of talking so damn much about myself.

Now I know, though. And I’m trying to make up for the time I wasn’t here for my parents when they needed me.

Still . . . it hurts to see my father’s familiar face looking so damn haggard.

“You hungry, Dad?” I say, pushing to my feet. It’s barely two o’clock in the afternoon and we had some cafeteria food at the hospital. But my dad needs something, and I don’t know what else to offer him than food. “I could make us a little something.”

Dad makes a muffled, congested sort of noise, one I don’t quite understand until his chest collapses and his chin folds in on itself and his shoulders vibrate with sobs.

He’s crying.

My kind, quiet, hard-working father who, my entire life, always seemed as strong and safe as any superhero, is standing in his kitchen weeping.

“Oh, Dad . . .” I cross the kitchen to his side. He doesn’t react. I stand there, watching him cry, cold air rolling from the refrigerator.

Panic winds my chest tight. Money problems I can help with.

But this? It’s a whole different level of need, of vulnerability. Coming from one of the most solid humans I know, it’s terrifying.

I don’t know how to help.

I don’t know if Icanhelp.

But after a minute — or is it an eternity? — of watching my father weep, it’s unbearable to do nothing. I have to try. I have to dosomething. I have to attempt to ease his pain. Even if it’s not the perfect thing, it’s better than nothing.

Gently, I push the refrigerator handle out of my father’s slack grip and let it close. Then I slide one hand across my father’s rounded shoulders.

His sobs reverberate in my palm. Some distant part of my mind thinks that I’ll never forget this moment or this sensation, not for as long as I live.

Dad turns to me, cheeks shining, eyes bloodshot, mouth pulled into a grimace I hope I never have to witness again.

But if I do, I’ll be right here with my father, helping him the only way I can figure out.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say. My voice breaks. I’m crying too, I realize. “I’m sorry you did this alone for so long.”

“Dehydration,” he says again, finally meeting my gaze with pleading eyes. “How can something so simple hurt her so badly?”

The only words I have are the truth. “I don’t know. But it’s awful. And scary. And so unfair.”

I wrap my other arm around my father’s shoulders and gently pull him toward me. He yields immediately, stepping close and burying his face in my chest, muffling his intensifying sobs in the fabric of my t-shirt.

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