River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(10)

She forced herself to turn her head and gaze at him. His shrunken and distorted body looked no bigger than a child’s. His face was drained of color. His once-black hair had turned white and stuck up in sparse patches around his head.

“Becca,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse, strained.

She pulled her chair closer, disturbing Romy on the floor in the hall. The dog stood but didn’t enter the room.

“Hey, Dad,” Becca said.

He looked as though he was trying to smile, his lips rising on only one side of his face. The other side was lax, the muscle paralyzed from a minor stroke, the medical emergency that had indirectly led them to the cancer. It was hard for Becca to imagine that had been two years ago. Then, he’d been riding his John Deere, tending his immaculate lawn, hunting, fishing, living the good life of retirement years. Of course, this wasn’t something he’d said to her but rather to Becca’s mother, who had later relayed the information to Becca. It had been her mother who had given Becca’s father the number to the condo’s landline.

“You should talk to him,” her mother had said. She was living in San Francisco with her boyfriend, George, the man she had lived with since divorcing Becca’s father over a decade ago.

“No,” Becca had said in return.

“He’s your father.”

Becca hadn’t responded.

“You need to let go of your anger, Bec. It’s the only way the two of you can ever move on. You need to talk with him and tell him how you feel before it’s too late.”

Becca had imagined her mother smoothing her eyebrows while they talked, a habit she had whenever they discussed a topic she found upsetting, particularly the topic of Becca’s father.

“Why? You never did. You just left.”

“I know, but it was different for me. And he’s your father.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, honey, can you hear yourself? It takes so much energy to be angry.”

They’d had the same conversation over and over since they’d first learned Becca’s father had been diagnosed with cancer. Becca supposed the only reason she was here now, the only reason she was sitting next to her father’s bed waiting to hear what he had to say, was because it was what her mother had wanted her to do.

He opened his mouth to talk and started coughing, a phlegm-filled, choking kind of cough. It continued for several seconds, seizing his chest, and she was suddenly alarmed.

“Dad,” she said.

His hand covered his throat. She stood and spun in circles, looking for a call button or a bell. She was a vet; she was used to emergency situations and should have some semblance of what to do, but she didn’t. For a moment her mind went blank. This was why she could never operate on one of her own pets. When it was personal, her emotions muddied her thoughts, rendering her useless. She reached for a tissue from the box on the nightstand, placed it to his lips. It was the only thing she could think to do. He spit the mucus clogging his throat.

The door opened, and Jackie breezed in holding a cup with a bendy straw. She was wearing skinny jeans and a tight-knit sweater with a plunging neckline.

“Here,” Jackie said and put the straw between his lips. “This should help.” She held the cup while he sipped the water. At the same time, she took the wet tissue from Becca’s hand and tossed it in a nearby trash can.

Her father turned his head away when he’d had enough.

“Come on now, just a little more.” Jackie talked to him as though he were a toddler refusing to take his medicine. “You need to keep fluids in you.”

Becca’s father looked at her. She could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes.

When he finished most of the water in the cup, Jackie smiled. “Much better,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your visit.” She closed the door behind her.

“Does that happen often?” Becca asked once they were alone, not knowing what else to say. “Is there anything I can do?” She looked at her feet. So many conflicting feelings piled up inside of her—twisting, writhing, knotting, tangling with the anger at her core. And buried far below all these emotions, there was something else, something that made her heart ache.

He shook his head and tried to pull himself up.

“Let me help you.” She reached under his arm. His bicep was as thick as her wrist. Once she got him comfortable, he looked at her long and hard, the way he used to look at her when she was a child, serious and stern. His eyes reflected a glimpse of the man he’d once been, despite the stroke and the cancer rotting his body. It was the reason he was still alive, his absolute refusal to give in. He’d stuck around a lot longer than the six months the doctors had forecast originally. Jackie might’ve had something to do with it.

Becca’s resentment returned. How easily her feelings spiraled and churned.

He opened his mouth to speak, but another coughing fit started. She reached for more tissues. He tried to talk through it, struggled to get the words out. His shoulders shook violently.

“What can I do?”

He shook his head.

Jackie breezed through the door again with another cup of water. This time she placed it on the bedside table. She rubbed his back and made soothing, cooing sounds as he hacked and spewed mucus into the tissues in Becca’s hand. When it was over, and air was moving more freely through his blackened lungs as best it could, he laid his head back against the pillow. It was enough to drain him of all his strength.