I let Vance and Stephen sit in the mini–living room. I’m watching my father. Even though I’m counting his breaths, I crane my neck to eavesdrop on their conversation.
Stephen says, “Crazy that Jacque Beaufort works here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Vance says with an air of total boredom. “Are people asking where I am at school?”
“Everyone.”
My brother must be smiling at that response. “Of course they are,” he says. “That was a stupid question.”
“I didn’t mean to make you freak earlier.” Stephen’s voice is small. I can tell he’s nervous. “I’ve never been in a place like this before. And it’s awful seeing your dad like this. Is he in pain?”
Vance exhales loudly, and I wait for him to blow up again. “Nah, no pain. That’s what a hospice is all about. They explained it to me and Oscar. They do everything they can to make the patient comfortable during their last days. No pain is what they do.”
“How’s Oscar doing?”
My brother has no idea how I’m doing. He remains focused solely on himself. As per usual. I lean over a bit, anticipating Vance’s answer.
He huffs. “The fuck if I know.”
At least he’s honest.
“Coach told me to tell you that coming to a practice might do you good. Help clear your head. He said we’re right across the street and you could be here in two minutes if you needed to be,” Stephen says.
“Coach knows I can’t do that. I don’t want to.”
They start talking about homework, and I zone out. I look down at our father with his slanted head, forever-open mouth. Hear his labored breaths. And I cry. The guilt over wanting him to die strangles me. It’s hard to breathe. I try to let the tears flow as silently as I can, but they’re clunky. I choke and then immediately cover it up with a fake cough. Having them hear me weep is the last thing I want.
My brother has always shown love and respect to this man in front of me. He has idolized him and emulated him and, yes, he has loved him. I believe our father may be the only human being that Vance truly values. Dad is a prize to him. A hero. Even our mother never got the same treatment.
I love my father too. Children are programmed to love their parents. It’s just how human beings are. So it’s no surprise that the love I have for him is genuine. It’s complicated, yes, but it’s real. Last night, as I was falling asleep, I tried to think of something positive about me and Dad. I ended up with: college. One thing Dad believes in for me and Vance is going to college. Vance and I have known about our college funds since we were little kids. Dad never went, and it’s something he’s been passionate about for both of us.
College is the only topic of conversation where Dad and I can talk somewhat normally. Unfortunately, I can count those conversations on one hand.
With all that said, other than help pay for college, my father has done little to support me, to show me love, to care for me. To me, my father has been just as good as dead for my whole life.
I went inward after Mom died because I had no choice. There was no one left at home who valued my presence, who cared what I thought, who wanted to spend time with me. It was so easy to slide into my shell. Who would ever pull me out?
I choke on a sob and cover my mouth. I pretend to have another good cough to camouflage the crying, and I think it works. Vance and Stephen are lost in their own conversation.
I’m just plain lost.