I was supposed to have more time.
Time, time, time.
I'd been gone too long. I'd avoided coming home, and because of that, I wasn't here for him, for my family. I'd abandoned him, and now … now … now I'd lose him forever.
I sank to my knees there in the hallway with my sister sobbing at my side, wrapping her arms around me as best she could, and we cried together. If only our tears could change what had come to pass.
Now I just had to make up for my absence as best I could in the time I had left. Now I would be present, consequences be damned. I'd handled so much, seen so much, witnessed war and death and suffering firsthand. I knew what to do and how to do it.
I also knew it would be the hardest thing I'd ever do.
We stood and held each other a little longer, hanging on to one another. Because we were all we had left.
I pulled away when I could finally speak. "Where's Sadie?"
Sophie drew in a breath and let it out, trying to calm herself. "She's at home. I couldn't tell her without you. I'm sorry … I wish … I wish …." She shook her head.
I swallowed again and pulled her into a hug. "It's all right. I'm here. We'll do it together, okay?"
She nodded.
I looked toward the door to his room, seeing nothing. "What do we do now?"
"We have an appointment with hospice in an hour to talk about our options."
Options. The remainder of my father's life had been whittled down to options for his death. "Is he … can he speak? How is he?"
Sophie rubbed her nose and let me go. "They say he was lucky. The clot was in the right hemisphere, so he can speak and comprehend, but he can't read. His speech is affected because of his paralysis, but he's already more clear today than he was yesterday. The doctor says that will get even better, but he probably won't be able to use his left hand or walk again before …" She looked toward his door. "He knows this is it, and he wants to go home."
"Then that's what we'll fight for."
We stood in silence. Sophie finally broke it, touching my arm. "Are you ready?"
I took a breath and squared my shoulders as best as I could under the weight. I didn't answer her question. There was no way to be ready for any of it, but I opened the door anyway and stepped into that room to face fears I hadn't even known were real until a few minutes ago.
When the door closed behind us, he opened his eyes, turning his head to the sound. And half of his face came alive with joy and pain and fear when he saw me.
"My boy," he said, the words thick.
"Hey, Dad." My voice was rough, and I cleared my throat as I walked over to him, reaching for his hand. He squeezed it hard and let it go with tears in his eyes, and when I bent, he cupped the back of my neck and pressed his forehead to mine.
"Long time," he muttered, the words shaky.
"I'm here now," I answered, begging his forgiveness.
"Glad," he whispered, and I pulled away. Sophie stood back, her fingers pressed to her lips, tear-stained cheeks shining as she watched us.
The door opened behind me, and I turned, unprepared for who I found.
Her cheeks were flushed, eyes big and shining, wet with tears, chest heaving from running or from proximity to me, I didn't know.
Elliot.
Her name in my mind was a curse I couldn't escape, a ghost that haunted me day after day, year after year since I'd seen her last so long ago.
Time stretched out in the moment, the two of us caught in it like a web, but we didn't struggle, didn't fight. Instead, we witnessed the past standing in front of us, alive and intact. She was the past I'd been running from for seven long, lonely years.
Dad cut the tie, saying her name with reverence, and I stepped back as she stepped forward, keeping my pain in front of me, as if it could shield me from her.
She tried to smile, forehead furrowed and brows pinched with her sadness as she turned all of her attention to him.
"Rick," she whispered, bending to kiss his forehead, and he looked at her just like he did my sisters. She'd been a part of our family from the second she crossed the threshold of our home.
"Sadie?" he asked, wondering after our youngest sister.
Elliot glanced at me, just a flick of her eyes to me and back to my father, but I felt the burn of her even in that small moment.
"She's at home. Sophie and Wade haven't told her yet."
He closed his eyes and nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm sorry," he tried to say, but the words were muffled and slurred.
"No," Elliot said, her voice shaking, her lips smiling sadly. "There are no sorrys, not for anyone. Especially not for you. Everything in its time. Now let the night be dark for all of me / Let the night be too dark for me to see / Into the future. Let what will be, be."
He smiled. "Robert Frost."
She smiled back, though her chin flexed, trembling as she held his hand. "Don't be afraid. You exist. You'll never cease."
He nodded again, a tear slipping down his temple on his left side, and she wiped it, knowing he couldn't. And I broke, not able to show it.
3
As Air
For every breath
And every beat of my heart
Carries me farther away
From you.
* * *
-M. White
Elliot
I squeezed Rick's hand and backed away, slipping into the background as Sophie and Wade took my place by their father's side. Sophie sat on the edge of the bed, caging Rick's hand in both of hers as if she could hang on to him forever, if she were strong enough. Wade pulled up a chair, his profile cut out against the shadows behind him, jaw firm, throat working, brow low. He'd changed so much, aged into a man, hardened into stone and muscle. I didn't recognize him, and yet the familiarity of him sang to me, called to me.
But he wasn't mine. He hadn't been for a long time.
And he didn't want to be.
So I sat in the back of the room in the shadows, shouldering my pain and all of theirs, wishing I could take it from them. I could be strong for them. I wanted to be strong for them — I had a feeling they'd need that in the days to come. It was a small offering, but an offering I had to give nonetheless.
The proximity to Wade was stifling, the shock of seeing him stripping me bare every few minutes, over and over again. I thought I'd find my footing and lose it, my feet slipping out from underneath as the undertow dragged me beneath the surface.
I'd loved him since the second I first saw him, and though time had passed, though I thought I'd buried that love, it sprang fresh the second I saw him again. The moments I kept locked away broke their chains and pressed themselves into my mind.
Long nights with his lips against mine, my body entwined in his, our hearts wrapped in each other. Simple, happy moments of his smile, his laughter, his love. It had always been him, from the first. There had never been anyone else.
The pain of our last words slipped in like a fog, banishing the warmth of the good. He'd asked the impossible of me, but that it was impossible didn't stop my regretting everything.
But it wasn't supposed to happen like that. We had a plan, a plan that he redrew without me.
Enlisting in the Army had always been part of that, a part that had never been contested. I was to stay in New York and graduate from high school, and then we would get married, start our lives together. Where he would go, I would go.
The night before he left, he came to me with his grandmother's ring and changed the rules. He couldn't leave without me, he'd said. He needed me to promise him, to come with him. And I wanted to.
But I was seventeen, too young, too afraid, and I didn't have my father's blessing. Why couldn't he wait? I asked him the question, begging him as he begged me. He wanted me to choose him.
I didn't know how to walk away from my life. And my biggest regret, my biggest shame, was that I wasn't brave enough to do it anyway.
The proposal devolved into an argument as his pain
twisted him until he was angry. But he wanted me to leave everything. He wanted to burn the plan and fly off instinct. And I wanted time, that was all. But it was more than he could give.
He said if I loved him, I'd go.
Time, I begged.
Now, he pleaded.
And in the end, it was over, his anger sending the shrapnel of his pain into my heart, shredding it to ribbons.
The wounds never healed. I was acutely aware of every rip, every tear, as I watched him from the shadows of the room.
Sophie and Wade both stood after a while, and so did I. Wade turned for the door, his eyes passing over me like I was invisible. Sophie reached for my hand.
"Will you stay with Dad while we meet with the social worker?" she asked quietly.
I squeezed her fingers. "Of course I will. Go."
She closed her eyes, bowing her head slightly in thanks, and then she turned to leave, following Wade out the door.
He took my heart with him when he left. It had been his, always — he'd possessed it since the beginning — and being near that atrophied piece of me after so long had the broken muscle thumping in my chest, erratic, beating again for the first time.
I took Wade's place by his father's side, resting my hand on his.
"Glad," he mumbled, pausing, "you're here."
"I'm always here for you, Rick."
He blinked back tears, eyes moving to the door. "Wade …" He didn't finish.
I didn't speak.
His eyes found mine again. "You okay?"
I smiled. "Only you would be worried about me right now."
Half his face lifted just enough to soften it. "You okay?" he pressed.
"I'm okay. You think he's okay?"
"No."
I pulled in a slow breath and let it out. "It's been a long time."
"Too long."
"He was surprised to see me. He didn't know … I should have waited to come."
"No," he said, squeezing my hand. "Needed you."
I wondered for a fleeting moment whether he meant himself or Wade.
I reached into my bag for my book, eliciting half a smile from him when he saw the cover. He couldn't read, but he recognized the book.
"Whitman," he said.
I nodded, pleased that he was pleased. "I thought you might like me to read to you."
"Please," he said and closed his eyes, and I turned to "Song of Myself," one of his favorites, and I began to read.
Rick was part of the reason I studied literature at NYU — he'd cultivated my hobby of writing poetry, turning it into an adoration of literature, putting books of poetry in my hand, prompting discussions after school that rolled into dinner with me and his children. They were used to it, consequences of having a father who was a Lit professor at Columbia, but I wasn't — those moments fed my soul.
I kept my voice steady and smooth, though I could feel the heat in my cheeks from the emotion, knowing he knew every word by heart, though he couldn't speak them, could never read them again, and a tear slipped from the corner of his eye as I read on.
* * *
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
* * *
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
* * *
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
* * *
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
* * *
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
* * *
I took a breath, overcome for a moment, unable to continue as my tears fell fresh. And he opened his eyes, the man who had been one of the constants in my life, the man who believed in me when no one else did, the man who would depart as air in just a matter of days, slipping away from me forever.
"Don't cry." He reached for my face, and I leaned forward for him to cup my cheek.
"I can't help it. What will we do without you?"
And to that, he only had one answer, and he gave it to me with strength his body no longer possessed, but his soul always would.
"Live."
Wade
The meeting was one of the hardest of my life.
I sat next to my sister, back rigid, listening to the options, the choices we had. Care plans and insurance and needing nurses every day. Transporting him home, readying the room for his hospital bed, the equipment, the space he would need as his body betrayed him.
There were plans to be made, a million things to do when all I wanted was to sit with him in that room and beg him to stay with us as long as he could.
Sophie cried silently through the conversation, and I took the lead gladly, finding comfort at least in that. In being a doer. In being a fixer. But frustration twisted through me at the futility of it all. There was plenty to do. There was nothing to fix.
So I put on the mask I wore, the mask I'd perfected over seven years, the one that buffered me against war, against Elliot, and now against this.
But as the meeting wore on, I considered the fact that Elliot was sitting in the hospital room just down the hall. She was older — it seemed impossible. The vision of her when I'd last seen her was a part of me, a part of my mind and soul. I could still hear her say goodbye, still feel her slipping away from me.
Although she was older, she was otherwise unchanged. Smaller, maybe. Quieter. But she was still so beautiful, her eyes so dark. Bottomless. Infinite.
It wasn't any easier to see her than I imagined it would be. Given the circumstance, it was exponentially harder, wider, taller than I could have believed. I didn't want her here, couldn't deal with her in that moment when I needed all my strength for my father. And with that realization, I found the deep burn of resentment that sometimes accompanied my thoughts of her. But it wasn't resentment for her; I resented myself.
We walked out of the office and toward the elevator, my feelings a nebulous cloud, ever shifting, charged and crackling.
Sophie sniffled, and I pressed the button to call the elevator, thinking about what waited for me downstairs. My father. Elliot.
My chest ached as we stepped onto the elevator. "Sophie, why …" I stopped myself, drawing a heavy breath. It wasn't the time. I could handle this, handle Elliot.
"Why what?"
I clenched my teeth, flexing my jaw. "Never mind."
Her brow furrowed. "No, Wade. Please, tell me."
"Don't worry about it, okay?" My voice was more gruff than I meant for it to be, and I cleared my throat.
She squared off, turning her body to mine. "Tell me what you were going to say," she insisted.
I faced her, trying not to accuse, but I knew my eyes were hard, and I could feel the stiffness of my body, my heart. "Why did you bring her? You know …" I paused, unable to find the right words. "Just … why now? Why right now?"
"Because I asked her to be here." She frowned, her face tight. "It's been seven years."
I ran a hand through my hair. "You know damn well we haven't spoken since then. And to see her now …" I swallowed hard. "I just don't want her here, not yet. I need time."
Sophie fumed. "She's a part of our family, and she's been here all the years you haven't."
I angled away from her, the sting burning deeper than she could have known. "Not fair, Soph. Not fucking fair."
The doors opened, and we stepped off, legs moving fast with our hurt.
"What's not fair is you denying me the right to have her here. What's not fair is you denying her the right to see Dad." She grabbed my
arm, pulling me to a stop. "Wade, I know it hurts, and I'm sorry. But I need her. Please tell me you can find a way to be okay with it, because I don't know if I can get through this without her." Her voice cracked, and tears filled her eyes.
I stood there in front of my sister, who asked me to do the impossible, and I couldn't say no, and not just because I didn't want to hurt Elliot, but because Dad wouldn't have wanted me to either. He loved her, and having her there was the right thing, even though I hated the position I found myself in. I hated her, and for a reason I could never utter: I still loved her. I would love her forever. But there was no way back to what we were.
"Fine," I said curtly. "But please don't ask me for anything more than tolerance."
She nodded, and we turned, heading for his hospital room.
Elliot sat next to his bed, reading him Whitman, her voice strong and sure, words leaving her lips with the intimacy of them being her own. A flash from a thousand nights before overcame me — Elliot in my arms, reading me Byron with all the passion and love in her heart.
I pushed the thought away, holding it back with the truth of our circumstance.
She turned to us, closing the book and slipping it back into her bag. Dad opened his eyes and tried to smile as Elliot moved out of the way again.
She was so quiet, disappearing like smoke, just as she had before.
I moved to the edge of the bed. "Hey, Dad."
"Go okay?" he said through the side of his mouth.
"Yeah, it went okay. The social worker is going to meet with all of us tomorrow with the plans so we can make a decision."
"Just want …" he paused, struggling, "go home."
I swallowed. "I know. It's just details, like how many nurses they'll need, what days they'll come. That sort of thing."
He nodded.
I watched him for a moment, not wanting to leave. "Dad, Sadie's at home waiting for us. She … she doesn't know."
His eyes closed, chin trembling. Another nod.