The Simple Wild: A Novel(124)

“It’s not happening tonight, Dad.” Jane spent a lot of time walking us through what to expect. The shortness of breath, the organ shutdown, the mental deterioration.

All of us, including my dad, know it’s coming and soon.

But not tonight.

I turn the TV on to the sports highlights for him. “I’ll be back in a sec with your pills,” I say, adjusting his covers and planting a kiss on his forehead.

I’m in the kitchen getting my dad’s nighttime medications ready when Jonah’s Escape pulls up into the driveway. Throwing my shoes on, I dart outside into the chilly evening, not bothering to get my jacket.

I breathe a shaky sigh of relief. “You made it.”

Mom takes one look at me and, with a hand over her mouth, begins to cry.



“Hey Calla, would you mind grabbing me some water?” my dad calls in a croaky voice.

“Yeah, sure.” I reach for the glass I’ve already filled, along with the pills.

My mom, as stylish as ever in a simple black turtleneck, fitted jeans, and collection of jewelry, wordlessly slips them from my grasp. With a deep, shaky breath, and one last thoughtful glance at the mallard ducks, she makes her way into the living room, her socked footfalls soundless against the normally creaky floor.

In fact, she’s said very little since climbing out of Jonah’s SUV. This must be utterly surreal for her, to be back in Alaska after twenty--four years.

To see my father again, after so long.

Jonah wraps his arms around my torso from behind as we watch the reunion, one my father knows nothing of, that Agnes and Mabel intentionally stayed away for, to give them space. “Your mom is smokin’ hot,” he whispers into my ear, too quiet for it to carry over the sportscaster’s droning voice.

“That’s because Simon didn’t hide all her makeup like some psycho,” I whisper back.

Jonah pulls me tighter against him as we watch her quietly round the hospital bed. I’m trembling, I realize.

Probably because this is the first time I’ve ever seen my parents in the same room, that I can remember, and it’s on my father’s deathbed.

“Hello, Wren.” Mom’s eyes glisten as she holds the glass out in front of her with two perfectly manicured shaky hands, gazing down at the man who stole her heart so many years ago. Who she has spent almost as many years trying not to love.

Jonah’s body stiffens, and I realize he’s holding his breath along with me, as we wait three . . . four . . . five seconds for my dad to say something.

Anything.

My dad begins to sob.

And just like that, I sense a circle closing. Back to the beginning, and near to the end.

A calm washes over me, even as I turn and cry into Jonah’s shirt.





Chapter 26




“I think I saw a black one roll under the woodstove,” I call out from the wicker seat on the porch, a warm coffee mug in my grasp. “They bumped the bookcase when they were moving out the hospital bed.”

A moment later, I hear Mabel’s holler of, “Found it!” through the open window, followed by the click of the checkerboard latching in place.

“Good,” I murmur, adding too softly for her to hear, “You can’t play if you lose pieces.”

And yet we’re all going to have to play on with a big missing piece, I accept, as a painful ball swells in my throat.

Dad passed away five nights ago, surrounded by his loved ones, just like all those newspaper obituaries read.

He died as he lived. Quietly, with a resigned sigh and a smile of acceptance.

Leaving a giant hole in my chest that I can’t see how time will ever close. And yet I wouldn’t trade this emptiness for anything.

A waft of subtle floral perfume announces my mother’s presence before she steps out onto the porch. “It’s still so surreal, being out here,” she murmurs, edging into the wicker loveseat next to me. “I can’t believe he kept all this.”

She’s an anomaly here—in her silk blush blouse and pressed dress pants, her hair smooth, her makeup impeccable, her wrists sparkling with jeweled bracelets.

It’s hard to believe these once were all her things, a long time ago.

“He kept everything that had to do with you, Mom.” Including his love.

She takes a deep, shaky breath, and for a moment I think she’s going to start breaking down again, as she has done countless times—the evening he passed, and the long, emotional days that have followed. But she holds it in as I reach to take her hand and squeeze, trying to silently convey my gratitude to her. I’m so glad she came. So glad I didn’t have to argue or negotiate or beg. All it took was one text, one line of I think you need to be here, and she was on a plane three days later.

My father would never have asked her to come, but I sensed the utter peace around him as she sat in that chair next to him those last few days, holding his feeble hand.

I caught the smile that curled his lips as she laughed out loud over something on the TV.

And I saw the tear that rolled out from the corner of his eye, as she leaned forward and kissed him one last time.

“Jonah’s at work?” she asks softly.

“Yeah. He said he’d be late tonight.” He’s been late every night. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s avoiding dealing with my dad’s death or because of the fact that I’m leaving soon. Probably both. I sense him slowly detaching himself from this—us—in probably the only way he knows how. I can’t blame him, because I’m having a hard time coming to terms with our looming end myself.