20

I can’t sleep even though I’m tired. I can’t eat even though I’m hungry. I toss and turn, throw the blankets on and off because I’m alternately shivering and then sweating. I hear a car door slam, then the doorbell ring.

I get out of bed and look out the window. It’s Dr. Fleming. In all the years I’ve been seeing her, she’s never come here—I always go to see her at the hospital. She’s far too busy to make house calls.

This is not a good sign. Although she’s not delivering any news I don’t already assume.

My dad steps out onto the porch and closes the front door behind him. I can’t hear what Dr. Fleming says to him, but the next thing I know, he’s yelling, “We should do another set of tests. They could come back different!”

“Her brain has begun to contract,” Dr. Fleming says, loudly enough for me to hear this time. “Once the neural pathways start—”

“What about the study?” my dad bellows. “What about UW? There has to be—”

“They shut it down,” Dr. Fleming tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I found out this morning. There won’t be a phase two.”

My dad breaks down at this news. He’s always been so strong. He’s never cried in front of me, not even when my mom died. And now he’s a wreck because of me. Because of my actions.

“I did everything I was supposed to,” he says, choking out the words. “When she was little, no matter how much she cried and moaned, I wouldn’t let her go outside. Play in the park. Go to the beach. She begged me. For things she had every right to do, and I denied her all of them. To protect her. And for what? For this?”

Dr. Fleming pats my father’s back as emotion overcomes him. “XP is a disease that tends to take the joy out of a child’s life,” she tells him. “But all these years I’ve known Katie, she’s never complained, never sulked, only seen the good in things. And the way she talks about you—I’ve never seen a teenager so openly adore her father.”

She’s crying along with Dad now. And I’m crying with them both. They hug.

“Katie’s not only held on to her joy, she brings other people joy. Katie shines brighter than almost any patient I’ve ever treated. And that’s because she’s so well loved. You’re a good father, Jack.”

My dad swipes at his face with his sleeve and nods. “How long?”

“It’s hard to know for sure,” Dr. Fleming tells him.

“Days? Weeks? Months? What?”

And in typical Dr. Fleming fashion, she tells him, “Most likely one of those.”

I feel numb, like I’m frozen in time. I can’t do anything but blame myself for ruining everyone’s life, including my own. How could I have been so ungrateful? This is what I get for not wanting the life I had anymore, for wanting so much more. I get to have no life at all. A life cut even shorter than it already was going to be.

I’ve got to make this better somehow.

I’m sitting with my dad in the darkroom later. He’s dipping photos in solution, drying them, hanging them. Doing what he does best.

“You know I know, right?”

He stops what he’s doing. Stares at me. Clears his throat. “What?”

“I heard you and Dr. Fleming talking on the porch earlier. When you thought I was sleeping,” I tell him.

Dad comes over and scoops me up in a hug. “I’m sorry,” he says over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

I tell him It’s okay and I’m sorry, too more times than I can count. I’ve been thinking all day about how I can possibly make some meaning out of this awful situation, and what I’ve finally come up with is this: I have to find a way to give back. One last message of love. I suddenly know what I can do for my dad.

“I’ll be upstairs,” I tell him. “When you’re done down here, we can order some takeout, okay?”

“That’s it, Katie?” he asks, palms up, with a little shrug. “No questions?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

An hour later, he makes his way to the den. I’m sitting on the couch still typing away on my computer. I’ve been working hard on my masterpiece, and it’s almost complete.

“I’m starving,” my dad says. “Should we order from Hunan Chinese?”

I make one last change and look up at him. “Huh?”

“I said, are you in the mood for Chinese?” he says. “What are you so engrossed in?”

I turn my computer around so he can see it. “Chinese, sure, always. You know that. And I’ve been making you an online dating profile.”

My dad is momentarily floored. “What?” he asks, his mouth hanging open.

But really now. This is a long time coming. No one should have to be alone. Everyone should have someone special. That’s basically the key to happiness, as I found out with Charlie.

“What do you think?” I ask, showing him two different options for his profile picture. “I like your hair in this one, but in the other you have your camera.”

Dad tries to force my laptop shut. “Nope. This is not happening—”

I stay firm. “This—is—happening! You need to go on some dates! You can even help me write it. Sit.”

My dad starts to protest again, but I shoot him my most serious look. He seems to accept that I’m not joking around here and will not give up on this idea. He plops down next to me.

“Here’s what I have so far. World’s greatest father and handsomest photographer—”

My dad makes a buzzer noise. “Veto.”

I ignore him and continue. “Looking for fellow adventurer interested in art, photography, nostalgia about the SuperSonics—”

“SuperSonics, now that’s important,” my dad says, nodding.

“And a partner in crime to travel the world.” I look up to see whether he is getting all this.

But he’s staring off into space, at the wall, at one of the pictures he and my mom took way back when. “I don’t travel,” he finally says, shaking his head.

“You will, though,” I tell him. I don’t add the second part of what I’m thinking, which is: You can again. After I’m gone.

It’s like my dad hears my unspoken thoughts. The air is basically sucked out of the room. He gets up off the couch and turns to leave. “All right, we’re not talking about this—”

I grab his sleeve. “Please. I want to. I have to.”

He stops. Exhales long and loudly, like a creaky old radiator. I pat the couch next to me.

“We had each other before. And now…” I am trying to gather my courage to say what neither of us has acknowledged out loud yet. “We lost Mom, and you’re gonna lose me, too.”

“No!” my dad protests. “There’s always a chance that—”

“I know it sucks. For you probably even more than me. But reality is reality,” I tell him. “We’ve always known it’s a matter of when, not if… and it is going to happen, like it or not.”

Nothing in history has ever been so hard to say. From the looks of my dad, nothing in history has ever been so hard to hear. But we need to talk about these things while we still can. He needs to know how much I love and appreciate everything he’s done for me.

I take a deep breath and continue my speech. “I want you to travel and start photographing the world again. I want everyone to see your photos, Dad.”

And with that, he breaks down in tears. In front of me. Another first. I’m honestly kind of proud of him. For so many years we’ve pretended to be okay to each other. And now it’s okay to let each other know we’re not.

I want my dad to know that some good can come of this—that he can have all his dreams back when I’m gone if he’ll only let himself. That I want more than anything for him to be whole again. And that he can be, even without me or Mom. He has to be or I won’t be able to bear what comes next.

“Stop,” my dad says through his tears. “I can’t…”

I forge ahead even though it’s hard to weather his grief. “I just want you to have as great a life as the one you’ve given me. I need to know you’ll try to be happy, and have adventures and someone to share them with because… well, that’s the best part.”

Dad composes himself with a few deep cleansing breaths, like we learned from those meditation videos we tried a while back. When I can see he’s almost ready to agree, I try to close the deal fast.

“Just go on one date,” I urge him. “Pick a rando lady and take her out. Please.”

He finally nods. “Okay.”

I grab his hand in mine. “Promise.”

“I promise,” he tells me.

I wrap my arms around him and we hug each other tightly. My tears fall fast on his shoulder. His tears soak into mine. I’m the first to break away.

“Now let’s call Hunan Chinese,” I say, wiping my face on my shoulder.

Dad gives me a smile, and says, “You go upstairs and rest for a bit. I’ll order us dinner.”

My heart feels like it’s somehow stitching itself back together. I know I can still make a difference for as long as I’m here. And maybe even after if I work fast enough.