Taking a deep breath, she exhales slowly. “I’ll call you afterward.”
I stare dumbfoundingly at her for a moment. Shouldn’t I get to be there, too? Neena is my daughter, as well. I want to question her, demand to know why I wasn’t invited, but I decide now’s not the time. She’s already frustrated with the reporters outside. “Okay,” I answer instead. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Clara,” Dr. Jones says. “Would you like to tell her or would you rather I told her?” I know I need to answer him, respond somehow to this devastating news, but my throat is so tight with emotion right now that if I open my mouth I’m afraid I’ll melt into a puddle of despair. Standing, he calmly gaits over to the watercooler and fills a small, plastic cup, then sets it on the desk in front of me. I’m sure he’s been taught not to show fear or panic, since the patient or the family member he’s delivering the bad news to is taking care of that all on their own. I bow my head and nod a thank you before taking the cup and swallowing down a small sip.
Paul is not a match.
Neena is going to leave me.
Oh, God.
My lungs burn, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. “Would you like a few moments, or would you like me to tell you where we go from here?” Dr. Jones asks as he returns to his cushy office chair. I bob my head yes in response. My body is starting to feel numb, preventing me from speaking. “You’d like me to go on?” he confirms. The pressure increases, and with my chest tightening, I nod yes again.
My baby is leaving. No parent should ever have to endure their child passing. I could be run over at this very moment by a speeding semitruck a hundred times and still not feel this level of pain. Staring blankly, I listen as he continues. After he tells me he’ll give her meds for any pain or nausea, he gives me a list of local hospice places, reiterating I should get everything in order now, before things get really bad. On the outside, I’m stoic. But inside, I’m a raging mess, screaming at the top of my blazing lungs. When he finishes, he escorts me to the door and squeezes my hand. I can’t help thinking what a shitty job he has, having to tell a parent their child is going to die.
“Call me if you have any questions or if you’d like me to tell Neena.” I bob my head once and exit his office. I refuse to break down in the hospital. I won’t. I just need to make it to my car. By the time I exit the hospital, I’m sprint-walking, trying to get to my car before the dam of sobs and emotion break loose. When I’m twenty feet away from where I parked, I see Paul sitting on the hood of my car, his arms crossed, his eyes closed. I freeze and watch him for a moment. I know it’s wrong, but a part of me hates him right now. He was our last hope. I needed one thing from him. I needed him to be a match.
Neena is going to die. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
My breaths come out in fiery gasps and my knees buckle. I fall to the cracked concrete as a wail escapes me. And I bow down, letting my head rest on the cold ground as I cry.
She didn’t ask me to come today, but I wanted to. I wanted to barge in the office and sit beside her to find out what the results were. But she’d probably have ripped me a new one, so I decided not to push. Instead, I found her car and decided to wait outside for her. I’m not a praying man. Not in the least. But I decided it couldn’t hurt. So as I waited, seated on Clara’s hood, I closed my eyes and prayed for the first time in a long time.
God. I know I’m a piece of shit. I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for the girl, my little girl. Please. Just please, God.
That’s when I hear Clara cry out and open my eyes to find her crumpled on the dirty parking lot ground in a mess of tears.
Guess God is giving me my answer.
Standing, I take a moment to swallow back the ache climbing up my throat trying to choke me before going to her. She needs me to be strong. When I reach her, I don’t speak. Nothing I say will make a lick of difference. People passing by are staring, their gazes judgmental, and I want to kick their teeth out. Scooping her up in my arms, I carry her to her car and set her on the back, then I hold her.
My fingers dig into his back as I cling to him. His shirt is drenched with my tears where my head rests on his shoulder. His hand cups the back of my head, holding me as I unleash my greatest fear realized. I’m not sure how long he holds me, but eventually my sobs ebb and I manage to pull away from him, and when my gaze meets his, it almost sucks the breath right out of me.
Paul James is crying, too.
I fling myself back into his arms, squeezing him as his body convulses, fighting the anguish he wants to let out. When he pulls away, he wipes at his eyes with his palms and clears his throat.