It’s not until I finish smudging and shading my drawing of Dad that I realize my brother has yet to return. I fear leaving this room. What if Dad is the sort who’ll wait until he’s alone to die? I couldn’t handle that. Vance would never recover if he wasn’t here, which makes me want to go find him.
I step into the hall and I’m in luck. A nurse I haven’t met yet is sitting at the rolling station. “Excuse me. Is Marnie still here?”
She looks up and smiles. “Hey, there. She’s at a different post. What do you need?”
I explain that I’m afraid to leave the room, but I also need to find my brother. She offers to give the floor a look and report back.
“Thank you,” I say.
Another bit of kindness from a stranger. I don’t know this nurse. She’s new to me. But I’ve yet to meet a cranky hospice employee—they’re all awesome. I guess you have to be really nice to do this for a living.
She’s back in no time with a dazed Vance on her arm. “He fell asleep in the Common Room.” He thanks her and then shuffles to his seat. “I’m just outside if you need me.” She slinks out and leaves us be. Again, more thoughtfulness.
“Look at Dad’s forehead,” I say, choosing to drop the argument.
Vance yawns and shrugs. “Yeah, so?”
“Really look at it.”
He leans in. “I am reaaallly looking at it. What am I supposed to see?”
“No, look for what isn’t there.”
“I don’t get it.” Vance huffs.
Why is he so difficult? “The crease.” I stroke Dad’s forehead. “It’s not there.” I can tell by Vance’s bewildered look that he doesn’t understand. I furrow my brow with exaggeration. “Dad looks like that sometimes. Right here is always pinched together.” I point to my forehead.
“What are you talking about?”
I huff. “Don’t tell me you never noticed it before. It’s always crinkled. Right here.” I rub in between Dad’s brows.
“Why do you care so much? I meant what I said before. I know you want him to die.”
Admitting how I feel…that he’s right… I can’t. He would flip out again. What a mess.
Vance’s cheeks redden. “You’ve never appreciated him! You disappeared into your cave after Mom died. You never even tried to help him…or me. And believe me, I’m not expecting you to somehow get close to Dad on his deathbed. Whatever, Oscar! You’ll have to live with all that bullshit, not me.” He turns his back to let me know he’s done, slams down into the chair, and gets lost in his phone.
His words are like a punch in the gut. What he just said is true. All of it. My stomach grinds with this sudden reality. I should’ve tried harder to be present, to be there for both of them, and guess I stink at hiding how I feel. And all along I’d thought I was so good at burying my emotions behind blank stares.
I gaze at Dad’s smooth forehead and count his breaths. Now that you’re about to leave me, Dad, I really don’t want you to die. “I wish he had more t-time.” My voice cracks. Vance looks up so fast that I don’t have time to swipe the tear running down my cheek. He glares at me. And glares. I turn away. The pain in his eyes is so intense, so sharp.
He hates me.
How will we survive this? The future? Anything?
If Vance chooses to move on without me, I will have no blood relative in my life. No one to share a family memory with. No one to commiserate this loss with. Why am I suddenly wanting things that I could’ve had my whole life? Maybe watching my father die a slow death has made me lose touch with reality.
An ache forms at the base of my skull. I want to crawl into a bed and sleep for days. Vance and I don’t speak for a while, maybe an hour, and I’m okay with this. If Vance had kept it up, I might’ve blabbed my feelings out. I don’t think I’m ready to admit any of that stuff to him.
Vance winces as he stands. “The sofa out in that Common Room sucks. I hurt my bad knee getting up.”
I hadn’t noticed him limping when he came in so I hope this is his way of letting me know that he’s moved on. “Well, we’re in a hospital,” I say. “I’m sure they’d be able to spare two ibuprofen.”
He must still be angry with me because he acts as if I’ve said nothing. To show him that I’ve moved on, I say, “I’ll go get you some. Stay off your knee.” Out of habit I take my sketchbook with me.
He doesn’t look up as I pass, but he says, “Thank you.”