I nod curtly and glance at the bed, before heading for the door, without checking if Dr Heinemann is following me but I feel his presence on my back. My body has learned how to recognize people around me, sense their objectives. I turn to face him. He indicates with his hand in the direction down the hallway urging me to follow him. I do, and we end up in a well-lit office.
I sit on the offered seat and lean forward watching as he rounds his desk and settles on the leather swivel chair across from me. My gaze strays around the room long enough to take in shelves filled to the brim with books and the stethoscope on his desk before focusing on him again. He leans forward, elbows propped on the hard wood surface, and takes a deep breath. His eyes are studying the folder in front of him. His chest rises on a deep inhale and he raises his ice-blue eyes to mine. Steeling myself, I nod for him to continue.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, I walk out of Dr Heinemann’s office. My head heavy and my thoughts beating against each other. He was honest enough to tell me the truth when I asked him to lay it on me. Josh might not even make it the few weeks they predicted. He’s too far gone. Chemo is no longer an option. He threw around a whole lot of medical jargon, and by the time I finally took my first deep breath, I was lightheaded. What I know now is, the cancer is no longer contained in his pancreas. The only thing being done now is to make sure he is comfortable and the pain is handled with medication. He is under hospice care to ease him into the goddamn greedy hands of death.
I stop in front of Josh’s room. My head’s pounding. My chest feels like a fucking void and nothing I can do at the moment will fill it.
I can’t face my brother looking like this. Feeling like this.
I stalk down the hallway in search of the bathrooms. Just as I am about to follow the instructions indicating where they are, someone grabs my shoulder, spinning me around. My body tenses, hand bunched into a fist, raised. This became a knee-jerk reaction during my time in prison. You learned to be fast or someone else would be faster than you.
I blink through my hazy stare and finally focus on the familiar faces in front of me. Time stands still as I stare at my parents, unable to move. Dad has more gray hair than the last time I saw him, his eyes bracketed with crow’s feet. Mom’s hair is short. She looks thinner and has bags under her eyes.
God, I’ve missed them.
“Cole.” My mom utters my name, tears rolling down her cheeks and time suddenly moves forward. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, pulling her to me. I close my eyes and bask in the comfort of her arms. Something I desperately need right now.
Fucking tears won’t quit.
When I open my eyes again, I meet dad’s gray ones, filled with so much emotion. He’s clearly trying to hide the pain and grief of losing his child by smiling. It doesn’t work. His eyes swimming in tears betray him.
Mom pulls back, holding me at arm’s length as she studies me, her gaze lingering on the tattoos. She’s sobbing freely as she slides her hands up to cup my face. Dad places his hands on Mom’s shoulders, and gently pushes her aside, as if she were a fragile china doll. There was a point I thought they’d end up filing for divorce. I’m glad that things have gotten better since I left Florida. He still handles her like she is the most precious thing in the world. The gentleness fades as he comes at me with all of his two hundred pounds of strength. I’m bigger, though, and heavier. About twenty pounds heavier so I absorb the impact and reciprocate the embrace. I might have toughened up in prison. I might be able to face the world’s fiercest storm. But when it comes to these two people standing in front of me, I feel like I’m five all over again, protected by their love and strength.
How have I managed to go so long without this?
Dad leans back to stare at me.
“Son.” I read the word on his lips.
I swallow the ball of tension threatening to rip my throat open, and look at the ceiling, blinking back the tears. When I’m sure I can handle myself without clutching my mom’s skirt and hiding behind it like a three-year-old, I return my parents’ gaze.
“Did you see him?” Mom signs, automatically slipping into ASL instead of speaking. This was a habit of ours.
I nod once. “I spoke to the doctor too.”
Her gaze roams my face as if she’s looking for answers. Her thumb brushes the tear rolling down my cheek and then she drops her hand. “We’ve missed you so much. Don’t ever shut us out like that again, Cole. Do you know how worried we were about you? Nine years without a word. . .”
She breaks down and clutches onto my shirt, crying into my chest.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I say, pressing my lips to her hair and meeting my dad’s angry gaze above my mom’s head. And right here, I know it was very wrong of me to shut them out. I had let my emotions take over and chose to leave everything I knew behind, including the people who loved me the most.
Who does that? I’m a selfish, son of a bitch.