“Mom?” I’m startled to find her sitting in a small wingback, her back straight against the chair. More so to find her wearing such little makeup when her gaze draws up at the sound of my voice.
She shoves to her feet, her arms fall open, and her face crumples with a muted sob.
“I’m here! Mom! I’m here.” I race to her and fear tightens around my hope at the sight of her red rimmed eyes.
“Oh, baby.” My mother lunges for me, her sobs wracking her frail frame. She cries, a loud gut-wrenching sound, and I simply hold her. Trent’s there like he promised, and he comes up behind me to wrap his long arms around both me and my mom. He’s right. I need him. He offers the strength I don’t feel, and I gladly soak it in.
“Mom. I came to see him. I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Her cries only escalate, and trepidation creeps up my spine. She sobs into my shoulder a good minute before backing away enough that she can meet my gaze. “Lex. Your dad. He ... He passed on.”
“What?” I don’t believe her. “When?” Wetness dampens my cheeks and it takes a second to realize it’s from my own tears. God damn it, I don’t want to cry for him. Fuck.
“Less than an hour ago. I can’t believe he’s really gone.” She grabs for me again but I can’t be touched anymore. Her comfort, her grief, it’s suffocating.
“No. No. No. No. No.” The words leave my lips in a murmur and increase in volume until I’m almost shouting.
“Lexi,” she says again, her arms open, but I don’t turn to her. I can’t. I won’t accept solace when I did this to myself. I was so damn stubborn. I should’ve come sooner. This is my fault. I back up until I’m pressed against Trent.
“Lex. We tried. We got here as soon as we could,” he says softly but it only pisses me off. I whirl to glare at him.
“No! Don’t do that! Don’t make me feel better about this! I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve—”
I expect my words to strike him, to chase him away so I can sit alone with my own failure, but it doesn’t work. Not on Trent.
“Let’s go.” He grabs hold of my wrist and drags me to the foyer, away from my mother, and right over to the front door. He opens it and then slams it shut without moving. I worry he’s lost his mind. When the woman who greeted us comes running, I understand that’s his intent.
“Excuse me. This is Richie Sands’ daughter. We know he’s passed but we need to see him. Can that be arranged?”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Her eyes are kind, compassionate, and full of an understanding so honest I’m stunned silent. She looks from me to Trent, and back again. “Your father spoke so highly of you, Lexi. He’d have been happy you came.”
Again with the tears. I can’t stop them so I don’t even try to wipe them away. I nod at her instead.
“Come right this way. We only have a few minutes before his physician arrives. They’ll need to take him.”
“Thank you,” Trent says on my behalf. We follow her soft steps up the spiral staircase and down a wide hallway. His bedroom is lit by only two bedside lamps, and it takes a moment for my eyesight to adjust to the dim room.
Richie lays on his bed, eyes closed and sheets pulled smoothly across his chest. An oxygen tube is still affixed at his nose, and if I didn’t know better I would think he was only sleeping. The room is clean, and there’s a peaceful comfort to the space; not at all the death and devastation I was expecting.
“You can come closer,” the woman offers, dragging a second chair next to his bed, close to the one already stationed there.
Trent squeezes my hand and I sit on the edge of one of the chairs, but I’m unable to study my father’s face without a flood of memories crashing down. Not the bad ones. Not the disappointments. Instead, it’s us walking hand in hand down the boardwalk. Eating fish and chips while seagulls try to steal a bite. Sitting at his feet while he worked out the melody to a new song.
Tears splatter, hitting the front of my shirt, and although I don’t give in to the sobs, I cry anyway. We didn’t have many good times together, but those are the times I remember as I regard my dead father’s face. Those are the times I mourn with my sadness, with my tears.
I don’t know how long we sit there, but a soft knock at the door startles me and snaps my attention back to the present. Trent’s arm goes around my shoulders, a protectiveness and source of comfort I lean into, and the woman ushers several others into the room.
“I’m sorry, but we need to move him now. It’s best if you step outside,” she says and I nod, standing and taking one last cleansing breath.
“Good-bye, Daddy,” I murmur. I turn away, and as I do my gaze catches on an open notebook at his bedside. Chicken scratches and messy words fill the entire page, but it’s my name in their midst I recognize immediately. “What’s this?” I ask.
“The past several days, he’s had difficulty speaking. But he could write to ask what he wanted.”
“That’s my name,” I blurt. Her mouth forms the most somber of smiles.
“He’s asked for you for weeks. He never stopped asking, Lexi.”
“May I?” The question leaps from my mouth and, before I can reach for it, the woman places the small notebook in my hand. I press it to my chest, the worn leather heavy against my soul.
