I’ve been hanging with Nadine all day. We went to the movies, and on our way to get our nails done, I got a text from Mom that I needed to come home. Now. As soon as I walk into my house, I feel the grief hanging in the air, clinging to the chandelier, touching every doorknob, sitting on every chair. Dorothy, Dad’s in-home hospice nurse, is here. This past week, she’s been here every day.

Hospice.

The first time I heard that word was in a family meeting with Dad’s doctor. The doctor talked with Jason and me about what to expect in the coming months. He said as Dad’s cancer progressed Dad would go to hospice or have a nurse come during the day and help keep him comfortable. Dad was adamant that he wanted to die at home, not in a facility with strangers. I couldn’t handle the conversation. Couldn’t just sit and casually talk about where my dad would die, that my dad would die. I walked out. Stood outside and let New York City’s noise invade my mind. Sirens, dogs barking, honking horns, languages from around the world swirling around me. Sometimes all the hustle in New York is overwhelming, but sometimes it calms me. Gives me something else to focus on other than my own hectic world.

“Where is everyone?” I ask Dorothy.

“Jason is sleeping,” she tells me.

“Sleeping?” It’s only four o’clock in the afternoon.

“He, well, your dad talked with him about what’s happening, and he cried himself to sleep.”

Mom must hear my voice because she comes out of the room and rushes over to me. Her eyes are red and puffy. She looks at me, says, “It’s time to say goodbye, Jasmine. He probably won’t make it through the night. He’s been—”

“Don’t tell me,” I say. “Don’t.”

Mom reaches out to hug me, but I don’t let her. I’m afraid that if anyone touches me right now I will start crying and won’t be able to stop. Ever. I walk to her bedroom, sit on the bed next to Dad, and lay my head on his chest. He tries to hold me, but his weak arms can barely squeeze me. His breathing is loud and slow and sounds like the building up of a tea kettle’s whistle just before it blows, except he never blows out a full breath. His breath struggles to get out, struggles to stay in, like something is playing tug-of-war in his lungs. I listen to his breathing and tell myself, Hold on to this, you will want to remember this one day. I’ve been doing this ever since Dad was diagnosed. I stare at him, trying to remember the way he tilts his head to the side when he’s trying to remember something, the way he rubs his head when he’s frustrated and trying to hold in his anger. I’ve been listening to his laugh. How it is never quiet, never a chuckle, always coming from a deep well of joy. A booming laugh that vibrates a room. I try to remember all of Dad so I can tell my future children about him. They will want to know about their grandpa, and I will want to tell them. I wish he could be on this earth forever, or at least till he’s eighty or ninety, at least till he’s old enough to sneak candy to his grandchildren like my grandpa did to me. Dad will not be here to tease me by telling my kids how I acted when I was their age. He won’t give his grandchildren scavenger hunt challenges, sending them around the city.

A part of me wants to freeze my life right here. I don’t want to have another birthday, don’t want to go to prom or graduate or leave for college or get a dream job or have a dream wedding because Dad won’t be here for any of it.

I will miss him every day for the rest of my life.

We lie together for hours. I didn’t mean to fall asleep with him. When Mom wakes me, she is whispering, “Your phone. It’s Chelsea.”

I pull myself away from Dad and take my phone out of Mom’s hand. I walk into the living room, knowing this is the last time I will be in Dad’s arms. I am tempted to turn around, look at him once more, but I can’t. “Hey, Chels.”

“Oh my God, Jasmine. Did you see my text messages? My grandmother drove me crazy at Christmas dinner. She absolutely pushed me over the edge. I swear, sometimes I wish I was a senior like Mia so I could get out of this house.”

I walk to Jason’s room. He is still sleeping. I sit in the beanbag chair in the corner of his room. He turns over but doesn’t wake up.

“I am so tired of her criticizing me,” Chelsea says.

Chelsea tells me the whole story of what happened at dinner. I don’t say much, just a bunch of Wows! And Reallys?

“Anyway, I’m so sorry,” Chelsea says. “I just started venting and didn’t even ask you what’s up with you.”

I tell her I am okay and don’t say anything else. I don’t want to say it out loud. Not yet. When I hang up the phone, I will have to deal with the chaos that is my own life, but right now, Chelsea is the siren and barking, the honking horns, the words swirling all around me.

“Ugh, my mom is calling me. Sorry, I gotta go,” she says.

We hang up.

I watch Jason sleep, and I wonder about all the things people say about boys needing their fathers and how a woman can’t raise a man to be a man and wonder what this all means now that Jason will be fatherless. I think about Mom and how she is losing so much right now, her best friend, her husband, the father of her children. How will she survive this? How will any of us?

I pick up my phone, text Isaac: It’s happening. My dad is dying.