In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(94)
“That’s where I work, Murphy. And I’m bold and aggressive. And I don’t compromise on people,” he pauses, eyes closing in and his mouth curving fondly. He isn’t a sexy man, but damn can he play the part. “Call me…soon. I’d like you to come to Nashville.”
He pats his hand along the top of the chair nearby, then takes a few steps backward, his eyes still on me as I try to piece together his card and Nashville and then…oh my god…
“Let’s make a record. Me and you. And let’s make it sound…just…like…that,” he points to the stage, where I was, where I had the most fun I’ve ever had playing my songs.
His back is to me a blink later, and within two more, he’s out the door. I don’t move from the place my feet are glued for at least ten minutes, only half listening to Steph talk about what she’d like to play next week and ask if I’m signing up again for Saturday. I tell her I will. Only, when I pull my guitar to my body and gather my things, I walk in the opposite direction of the comfortable and easy yellow notebook. I don’t write my name, because I’m not so sure I’ll be here next week.
“Bet you’re glad I made you smile up there, aren’t you Murphy girl,” Eddie says, coughing mid laugh as I pass him at the door. Our eyes meet and I question him with my look. Eddie knows who Noah Jacobs is, and I’m going to find out soon.
As soon as I can figure out where the hell Casey is.
Casey
Ending a life is complicated.
That sounds so flippant. As if I’m not really here for any of this. I’m making it analytical. That’s what my sisters are saying, at least. Of course it’s complicated. It’s souls and debates and choosing sides and respecting wishes and…I volunteered to be the judge. I was the only name on the ballot.
He knew this needed to be me. As pragmatic as the rest of them are, they come at things with arguments for their own personal theories. As unloving as our relationship may have been, I still come at my father’s death with feelings—his feelings, my sisters’ feelings, my mother’s. I choose what is right based on his wishes, and then I work like hell to make it okay with everybody else.
It’s exhausting, and it’s killing me…and it isn’t even really time for the hard choices yet. That time is coming. It looms around the corner, death rearing its ugly head, crooked fingers begging me forward and asking permission to take.
Take, take, take!
I sent everyone away. My sisters weren’t helping, and my mother wasn’t coping. My parents’ room has become an ICU in a matter of hours, and there are people coming and going on a constant basis. I simply sign forms. I think that’s my only role in life now—to sign forms on behalf of my father.
Don’t listen to Annalisa. She’s not mature enough to handle this.
That was the last text I got from my middle sister, Myra. Their bickering and opinions keep coming even though I sent them away. The noise is nonstop—they’re like hyenas. None of them wanted this job, though. They want it by proxy—like a f*cking senate that will spin its way out of responsibility if I make the wrong move in the end. This will become my legacy—the choice I live with.
Only it’s not. My father was very specific. I’ve read everything, and there is a very precise moment that is going to come when my father is going to want everyone to just stop.
Going to want. Even having that thought guts me, because he doesn’t want anything. His brain activity is the great barometer for everything that comes next, and as with all other things in this nightmare journey, those results are in the long list of things I’m waiting for—even though I already know that my father is gone.
My mother took two Xanax and is fast asleep now in my old room. I haven’t been to my apartment for actual sleep in so long, I forget what my bed and sheets feel like. And thinking of them only makes me crave Murphy, because the few hours I have been there have been with her. She was probably looking all over for me tonight. I wasn’t there, and that kills me. I haven’t even had a second to breathe, and I knew she’d be on stage at some point over the last two hours. On the off chance that my plan worked, I didn’t want to interrupt. This had to be about her, and only her. In fact, it’s probably best that I wasn’t there at all.
I hope she sees it that way.
Weary and alone in a house that has done nothing but ever make me feel lonely, I step out to the front lawn that is not so perfect any more. The summer night air is warm, and my limbs are worn from holding my body up and my mind together for the last eight hours, but this grass—it needs to be cut. All the planning in the world, but this one detail was something my father let go by. He probably figured nobody else would mow and edge to his satisfaction.
With sleep begging my eyes, I walk to the side of the house to my parents’ garage where I punch in the code that I only recently realized is my birthday—0316. The door lifts slowly, and my father’s car rests still clean from its last wash, not driven for weeks, only a thin layer of dust covering it. I think about how this will be something my sister will deal with—the lawyer in the family will settle who takes what. I don’t want anything. My father wanted to make sure my mom was taken care of, so I figure everything should go to her.
The red sheen of the lawnmower amuses me, how it matches the shine of his car. Everything always so well cared for—if only he’d given half of the attention he gave material possessions to me. I let the wave of bitterness pass as I roll the mower out to the edge of the driveway, and I unwind the cord to plug it into the socket by the front porch. My father liked the idea of being green. This translates to yard work taking four times as long as it should, though—as I worry about mowing over cords and electrocuting myself.