In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(71)

“He doesn’t know what’s best for him, Mom. Do you want me to tell him? I’ll tell him—I’ll be the bad guy,” Christina says. I only halfway understand what this argument is about, but my sister is making sense.

“I’ll be the bad guy,” I say, stepping into view and startling them both.

“Shit, Casey,” my sister says, hand clutched to her chest, a pile of towels at her feet.

“Chrissy, don’t swear,” my mother chastises her, and I can’t help but chuckle.

“Mom, if ever there is a time to swear—this is it. Let the woman slip out a little shit here and there, would you?” I say, stepping over what looks to be a week’s worth of laundry for a family of eight and making my way to my mom.

As tired as I feel, my mom’s look is far more haggard. She holds her hands out hovering over the mess before her, helpless, and finally sighs out a whimper. I pull her into my arms and hug her, feeling the mountain she is carrying shake with every sob.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m here now. And I won’t let you do this alone,” I promise, feeling my lungs shrink and the traps set around my chest with my words. For my father, responsibility has always been financial—making sure there are nest eggs and safety nets. But I kind of think being responsible for someone means stepping in to roll up your sleeves when their world is breaking. This is my world, too. I thought leaving it would be better for everyone, but I see now that it’s really only better for me and the man it all revolves around.

Murphy clears her throat, and her meek sound catches all of our attention. I can see the uncertainty written on her face. Stress has the ability to downright cripple her, and yet she signed up as a volunteer to swim neck-deep in it with me. I can’t help but look at her with nothing but love.

Her eyes dart around afraid to offend—and I think I love her.

Her hands dive in, picking up towels and folding shirts and sorting colors and whites, pants and socks—and I think I love her.

We’ve not really done anything but fight through demons and take chances on dreams in one another’s presence, but I think I love her.

It’s impossible.

It’s entirely possible.

My heart is a victim of this stress, and I know that’s the cause.

But I also think maybe…maybe it’s not. I at least admit to myself that I love the idea of loving her.



* * *



Together, with my mom and sister, the four of us spend three hours returning the kitchen and other forgotten rooms in my parents’ house to normal. My father is heavily medicated, and I haven’t seen him yet, but I know that part is coming soon. I also know nothing will prepare me for it. My best friend’s warning echoes in my mind: It’s going to be harder than you think.

Christina has a power of attorney document drafted and a notary friend on call, ready to witness, but my mother is still wavering that it’s the right thing to do. Murphy continues to carry out housework, leaving the three of us alone in the kitchen to hash out one last argument, but I catch her eyes over both my sister and mother as she carries a final load of trash through the door. Her gaze is full of empathy, but there’s a silent message in it too—I’m doing the right thing.

“Mom, I know you’re scared,” I say, standing and raising my voice just enough that my sister gives way and lets me have the floor. I square myself with my mom and put my hand on her shoulder, my heart breaking when she leans into it—her fragile face against her baby boy’s arm. My father’s illness has aged her several years in a matter of weeks.

“He’s always made the decisions,” I say, and when I see her lips part in argument, I stop her. “I don’t mean this in that way. This is not about me and how dad and I cease to get along, this is about the way it’s been, the way life has worked, for you. And it’s okay, because for you, it has worked. But now, Mom? Now…this way is broken. And using Dad’s own logic, making the smart choice, even when it’s not the one your heart wants, is what you need to do to make sure you are doing what’s best for him. He is no longer capable of deciding these things.”

“He’s afraid things will cost too much,” she says through a panicked voice.

“You have insurance,” Christina explains, and I sense the conversation starting to spiral along the same path it’s been for the last half hour.

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt. My palm to my mother’s warm cheek, I move her sightline to me again. “You know he wouldn’t have let something fall through the cracks. That man,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs, “he would have had everything prepared for something like this just in case. It’s all in place. He’s just no longer in a state where he can make the call.”

My mom’s eyes drop and her breath leaves her chest as her shoulders slump.

“I don’t know,” she says, her fingers pinching at the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know; I don’t know; I don’t know.”

“He did,” I say, lifting her chin. I bend to meet her gaze until we’re tethered—locked so she sees the truth in my expression. “You know he did. He knew. And he wouldn’t have let things get this far without being ready.”

We stare into each other for almost a minute, and by some miracle, my sister remains silent and still. I hear Murphy step in through the back door quietly, and I feel stronger just knowing she’s there.