Don't Fail Me Now(73)

There’s a fear, too, of course, that goes beyond whatever we’ll find when we really do get to the hospice. Tim’s dad and Leah’s mom are flying into LAX in the afternoon. We’re supposed to meet them at the airport for a seven P.M. flight back to Baltimore. I’m worried about what they’ll think of us—or what they think of us already. I don’t know how they expect me to act with Tim. How much has he told them? And what’s going to happen when we get back home? Will we really try to be together? Will I step beyond that white picket fence for family dinners? Will he climb our cracked front stoop for study sessions? Or will he gradually recede back into the ether, like one of my tidal waves—only one I don’t want to ever end?

These questions are still knocking around in my burned-out brain as we step off the bus into a perfect, dry 72-degree breeze that makes me briefly consider never going home at all.

“Look, a palm tree!” Denny says excitedly. We’re standing in a back alley surrounded by squat little clusters of buildings the same color as Goldie’s anemic paint job, but he’s right—the palm trees overhead lend the bus-stop landscape an exotic, even glamorous feel.

“Finally,” Leah grins, stretching her arms over her head. “I love California weather!” She throws her arms around Tim’s shoulders. “Can we move here?”

“You’ve been here?” I ask.

“Just for Disneyland,” she says, and I make a slashing motion across my neck. If Denny hears we’re anywhere close to the Happiest Place on Earth, we will hear about nothing else for the rest of the day.

“So I guess we just . . . go now?” Cass asks, slinging her backpack onto one shoulder. Except for Denny, who’s busy tossing a stick at a stop sign, we all look at each other, waiting for someone to find a reason to stall. But there is none. We made it. This is what we came for. My stomach lurches in the same way it did the time my seventh-grade class took a field trip to a Six Flags knockoff called Adventure Park and I got on the roller coaster only to change my mind at the last second—that nevermind! nervous system double-back that’s probably a Darwinian adaptation designed to save us from our own dumb decisions.

“You ready?” Tim asks and reaches out for my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. I squeeze, hard.

“No comment.”

“You’ll feel better in the cab,” he says.

But I don’t feel better in the cab. In addition to my churning insides, there’s a bad feeling I just can’t shake. It’s not panic or fear, exactly, it’s just the sensation that something is wrong, something I can’t pinpoint. I tell myself that maybe it’s riding in a car that’s not Goldie, a compact Prius taxi with smooth, clean seats and no food smells. Or being so far from home now that Mom is out of jail, on her own with no one to keep her in check. I take deep breaths and try to calm my nerves. I want to be clear-headed when I see Buck. I need to be able to tell him what I have to say, exactly the way I’ve been practicing all these years.

When we pull up to the Golden Palms just after eight, the feeling in my gut is justified: Something is very wrong. In fact, I’m so convinced the driver has the wrong address I make him circle the block twice. In my mind, and in the dreams, it was a sprawling, free-standing complex that was set back from the road like Tim and Leah’s school and surrounded by meaningfully manicured trees to look like swans or something. There might even have been a fountain or a koi pond. Palm trees, definitely. It would have an air of serenity and almost unbearable gravitas. What I did not picture was a crappy plastic sign in one of eight slots on a two-story medical plaza sandwiched between a liquor store and a car wash. It’s a strip mall. My father is dying in a strip mall. And as much ill as I’ve wished on Buck over the years, I would never wish for that.

“This is more depressing than I pictured,” Leah says, taking in the colorless stucco, the neon sign for the nail salon (with only the N unlit, turning into the cruelly accurate ail salon), the family dental practice, and the two homeless men slumped against opposite sides of one of the concrete columns separating the parking lot from the stores.

“Damn,” Cass whispers.

“Can we get doughnuts first?” Denny asks.

“After,” I say. And I intend to keep that promise. After whatever awaits us, I am going to face-plant into a plateful of simple carbohydrates like it’s my job.

I lead the way across the parking lot, into the shady, faintly urine-scented stairwell, and up to the second level, my adrenaline pumping so hard I feel a little woozy. This is not a dream. I’m about to walk in and face the reality of Buck. He won’t be a scapegoat specter I can design in my head to my desired specifications; he’ll be right there, in front of me, an absolute truth of bones and flesh who will say things and do things I can’t control. Twenty feet now. Fifteen. Ten. There are double doors covered with screens from the inside, glowing an opaque yellow, golden on one door, palms on the other. Palliative care . . . from people who care! in smaller script below. Taped above the doorknob is a hand-lettered sign that reads Please ring bell. Without looking back at the others, I put my finger on the button and push.

A few seconds later, there’s a sharp buzzing sound, and I pull the door open, misjudging its weight so I end up stumbling back into Cass. Inside, it looks like a normal doctor’s office waiting room, with chairs and wall-mounted racks of magazines and a conspicuous restroom right next to the main desk where people get sent to pee in cups. The only things that make it weird are the strong odor of dying flowers and the prominently displayed funeral brochures. I walk up to the desk with Tim and my siblings trailing behind me. The woman sitting behind it looks a lot like Aunt Sam. She looks up at us with a tight smile, and I get that bad feeling again.