“Taylor,” he said, shaking his head. “I just don’t think it makes much sense.”
“I know,” I said, surprising myself—and Paul, by the look on his face. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it. Just for a moment or two. You can carry him outside, or I can wake Warren up. I just…” My voice trailed off. I had no idea why I thought this was so crucial. It’s not like I believed that meteor showers had some magic healing properties. I just wanted my dad to see something so extraordinary. I hated that all he saw, every day, was our living room. I wanted him to breathe in, labored or not, some of that pine-scented night air. I was searching for the words to express this, when Paul stood up.
“For five minutes,” he said. “And there’s no guarantee that he’ll even wake up.”
“I know,” I said. “Thank you.” Paul got up and unfolded the wheelchair, while I crossed over to my father’s bedside, standing right by his head. His breathing was still labored, with a rattling to it that had shown up in the last two days, and which terrified me. It made every breath he was taking seem painful, and I hated to hear it. “Daddy,” I whispered, touching his shoulder through the blanket, shocked by how bony it felt, how fragile he seemed. “Rise and shine. Up and Adam.”
There was a hitch in his breathing, and for a moment I panicked, but then my dad’s eyes opened, those blue eyes he’d given to only me. He looked at me, but he’d been looking at us, unseeing, lately, so I didn’t know if this meant anything. But then his eyes focused on my face and one corner of his mouth pulled up in a tiny smile. “Tayl,” he said, his voice thick and slurred. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then said, his eyes starting to drift closed again. “Hi, kid. Whas news?”
I smiled even as I could feel tears prickling my eyes. “Want to see some stars?” I asked him. I looked over and saw that Paul was standing by with the wheelchair. I nodded at him and stepped away. With practiced skill, Paul lifted my father from the bed as though he weighed nothing and settled him into the chair. I grabbed the blanket from the bed and tucked it around him, and then Paul pushed him out to the front porch. I followed, and was thrilled to see that the falling stars were still falling. That this event, which happened for a brief window just a few times a year, hadn’t passed us by.
Paul stopped my dad’s chair in the center of the porch and put the brake on, then looked up himself. “Wow,” he murmured. “I see what you mean.”
I sat down next to my dad’s chair and touched his shoulder. “Look,” I said, pointing up. His head was resting on the back of the chair, but his eyes opened and looked up.
I watched him watching the stars above, as streaks of light flew past. His eyes were focused, following one as it cut its path across the huge, dark canvas of the sky. “Stars,” he said in a voice that was clearer than he’d yet used that night, a voice that was laced with wonder.
I nodded, and moved closer to him. His breath was rattling again, and I could feel Paul standing nearby, waiting to bring my dad inside. But I picked up my dad’s hand where it was hanging over the wheel and took it in mine. It was too bony, but it was still huge, engulfing my own. The hand that had taught me to tie my shoes and hold a pencil correctly and had held mine carefully when we were crossing the street, making sure to keep me safe.
His head was lolling back against the chair again, and his eyes were closing. And I didn’t know if he’d know what I was saying—or remember, if he was going to a place where there was remembering—but I leaned close to him and kissed his much-too-thin cheek. “Daddy,” I whispered, feeling my own breath hitch in my throat. “I love you.”
Just when I was sure that he was asleep, the one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I knew that,” he murmured. “Always knew that.”
I didn’t care if Paul saw me crying. It didn’t matter in the least. I had told my father what I needed to. I squeezed his hand, gently, and I felt him squeeze it back, so faintly, before he drifted off to sleep once again, as, above us, the stars continued to fall.
chapter thirty-six
I KNEW THAT SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT WHEN I WOKE UP THE next morning. I could hear voices outside, the phone ringing, my mother’s voice, low and choked. I could hear the crunch of tires on gravel, and voices from the living room, voices at a normal volume when normally we spoke softly, to let my father get his sleep.
Nobody was letting him get his sleep now. Which meant—