In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(72)

“He knew,” I nod again, this time getting my mom to nod and agree with me.

With my mother finally ready to accept full responsibility, I prepare myself for what I knew would be the hard part about today—I am going to have a conversation with my father, alone, for nobody’s ears but ours. And I’m going to have to convince him that he’s wrong about something. And I am going to have to lie and capitulate and make promises that I have no intention of keeping, but it won’t matter, because it’s what’s right. If we could travel back in time to a year ago—before there were signs of pancreatic cancer, before my father’s appetite waned to almost nothing and his abdominal pain became impossible to ignore—I know it’s what he’d tell me to do. None of that is an option, so he’s going to have to listen to ones that are real.

With my sister’s coaching and the paperwork in my hands, I leave my heart and my family downstairs and step into the dark room at the end of the hall. His frail body is mostly bones, and the sheets are rolled down to his waist, his white T-shirt draping from his shoulders. A month ago, he looked strong enough to punch me. The man before me now is a ghost of the one he was before.

“They all give up on arguing with me? Is that why you’re here? Are you the last straw?” he chuckles to himself, his words falling into a coughing fit. He reaches for a tissue and holds it folded over his mouth, coughing into it until eventually he can get his breath.

“Something like that,” I say, my eyes meeting his. They’re so sunken in.

I sit at the end of the bed, and I think about how all I wanted when I was a little boy was to be able to rush into their bedroom for comfort during a storm. I ran to my sisters’ rooms instead, and the older they got, the less often they wanted to take me in, too.

This storm is too big to escape, and my father is no longer able to run.

“You have to sign the power of attorney, Dad. And you know you do,” I say.

“Horse shit,” he says, coughing again.

I look away, because he’s hard to look at.

“I figured you’d say that, but I’ve been thinking a lot,” I say. I draw in a deep breath through my nose and prepare myself for the words I don’t believe in one bit. “You were right. I was wrong. I haven’t been living a responsible life at all. But I can fix it. I’m finishing my degree, and then I’m going to apply for the apprenticeship.”

My father’s eyes take me in wide, and he doesn’t blink.

I just gave him everything he wanted. I just promised I’d live the life he had laid out for me. I promised it, because I know when the time comes for proof, he’ll be long gone. I lied. And it isn’t worth not giving him this strange peace of mind just so I can think I won the battle by the time he went to his grave. In death, nobody wins.

“Good,” he says. One word. That’s all I get.

“Good,” I repeat, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. It’s as if we’re making a deal. Nothing about this feels like a moment shared between a father and his son.

“Mom doesn’t think you have plans in place, but I told her that you wouldn’t let something like this slip,” I begin, knowing my father won’t be able to help himself from divulging just how prepared he is.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, letting his head fall in the other direction, away from me. I get a glimpse at his ribs and his frail body as he turns. My father is wasting away.

“I know, but you know how she worries. I can explain everything to her again if you want. I can show her where everything is, how the files are in order, how the claims work and when the coverage kicks in,” I say.

His head rolls back in my direction and his eyes glaze. He’s drifting a little. Christina warned me that he might.

“I can do it, Dad,” I say, and at the sound of those words, things become suddenly clear and the meaning of that sentence—it changes. My gut twists. This isn’t about my father being stubborn at all. This isn’t about not believing he needs the care everyone else thinks he needs. This isn’t about giving up control. This is about him not wanting to rest that burden on my mother. This is about him carrying out his mission to the grave—about him making sure everyone else is taken care of first. It’s the mantra that was literally beaten into his being, and he will die by it.

But me…I’m different. And our relationship is different. It always has been. I’m the man of the house, and giving the burden to me is not against his misguided creed.

“I can do it,” I say again, meeting him squarely in the eyes, lucidity there and his understanding perfectly clear. His weak hand rises from under the blanket, moving forward and reaching to grip mine. We connect, and everything about my father feels breakable in my palm, but I don’t waver or show how much I’m frightened by the feeble touch of him in my hand.

“I can do it,” I repeat. And I know by the flash of relief in his eyes that he accepts.

I nod slowly and back out of the room, grateful to find my sister sitting in the hallway alone. I catch her up on the new plan, and she goes to work immediately in my father’s old office, a small room down the hall, until an updated contract is printed that appoints me as the decision-maker for my father’s health and wellness.

Christina never questions, and I know it’s because she’s relieved it isn’t her. I’ve never fit the Coffield mold. I was the child born as a surprise—I wasn’t planned, and I never fell into step quietly. But I’m supposed to be here. And today, I’ve discovered my purpose.