Call It What You Want(67)

We stare at each other for the longest time.

“Do you want to see him?” Rob finally says. “I can take you upstairs.” He grimaces. “I hate this. I feel like I’m talking about a pet.”

He’s not wrong: he sounds like he’s got a tarantula or a pit viper. His voice is so foreboding that a chill locks my spine into place, but I don’t want to take the cowardly way out. He has to live with his father. I can look the man in the eye and say hello. “Okay. If you want.”

“If you want to leave—after—it’s okay.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

Rob doesn’t say anything to that, which isn’t encouraging. He uses his grip on my hand to tug me toward the stairs behind the kitchen. The rest of the house is as bare as the front. We pass a dining room with a simple table and four chairs, then a completely empty room with floor-to-ceiling windows that must have once been an office. This is the only room missing meticulous paint and flooring. The walls are bare white, unlike the trendy grays and blues of the rest of the main level. Carpeting has been torn up, leaving aged hardwood floors that haven’t been refinished.

I think of his story about finding his father. I wonder if it was in there.

“Mom says we’ll probably sell it soon,” Rob says, as if the silence has grown too heavy, “but it’s tricky with all the lawsuits and stuff.” Uncertainty rings in his voice. I can’t imagine living with that kind of precarious future, not knowing what the next day would bring. I squeeze his hand.

He squeezes mine back and stops me at the top of the staircase. “It’s stupid, but I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I wasn’t.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I say softly.

“Come on.”

He leads me down a short hallway to a closed door, which he opens without knocking. That surprises me—who doesn’t knock?—until I see the man in the wheelchair next to the window.

I should have asked what to expect. I knew his father was impaired in some way, but for some reason, I was expecting something like a stroke patient, with weakness on one side, or someone with the mental capacity of a toddler, who wouldn’t be able to speak well. Dad had a police officer friend who was shot in the head and survived, and while he wasn’t able to return to police work, he was able to function as an adult.

Rob’s father is none of those things.

I wasn’t expecting a man who looks like an older version of Rob, with slightly graying hair and a dent in his skull. I wasn’t expecting a blank stare or the clicking machine affixed to a pole beside him or the tube disappearing under the waist of his clothing.

I wasn’t expecting the faint smell of urine mixed with something more medicinal.

“We usually park him in front of the TV at night,” Rob says, “but it’s hard to get him upstairs by myself, and Mom didn’t want to have to deal with it when she gets back. I put him by the window because it seems better than staring at the wall. If I put him in bed, he just falls asleep, and that means he’s up at four a.m.”

I swallow. “That makes sense.” It doesn’t make sense at all. My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else.

“It doesn’t seem to make a difference either way,” he continues. “Sometimes I wonder if we do all that for ourselves, you know what I mean?”

No. I have no idea. I had no idea he was living with this. I turn and look at Rob. His expression is frozen somewhere between resignation and fear.

“You take care of him,” I say. “I don’t think—I don’t think I knew that.”

“Mom does most of it. We have nurses that help.”

“Does he respond to anything?”

“Not the way you mean. He can feel pain, for sure. Sometimes different things will set him off or make him upset. But calling his name or something? Never.” His eyes shift to his father. “Dad! Hey, Dad!”

Nothing. After a moment, the man blinks. The machine continues its rhythmic clicking.

I look back at Rob. I’ve been so worried about Samantha and how our family is going to continue, regardless of her decision, but that’s nothing like this. I imagine my father in a chair like this, unaware of who I am or what’s going on around him. Rob Lachlan Sr. committed crimes against dozens of people, but he was still a father. He was still Rob’s father.

On impulse, I shift forward and throw my arms around Rob’s neck.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, and the words don’t sound like enough. “I didn’t know.”

He’s so withdrawn when it comes to his family that I’m surprised when he doesn’t pull away and instead hugs me back. I’m even more surprised when his breathing shakes. “You’re the second person to spontaneously hug me today. I must look pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic.” I hold on, as if I can feed him a single strand of hope just by virtue of physical contact. “You’re not, Rob.”

“I am.”

I press my face into his shoulder. “You’re not,” I whisper. “You’re not. You’re not.”

His chest expands as he inhales, a warm rush of his breath against my hair as he says my name. “Maegan.”

Abruptly, he pulls back. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and drags me back through the door, down the hallway a few feet, and into another darkened room.