The stubble-covered knot in the center of my brother’s neck jerks upward as he swallows. “I think Papa would hate this, hate having people turning him and wiping his ass. Seeing him lying there like that, knowing he’ll never be the same again, knowing the rest of his life will be like this, I can’t imagine why we’d want to prolong this. I think it’s what he would want.”
“He’ll be a marked man, Dallas. They’ll put this let-him-die bracelet on him and it just feels . . . wrong—like we’re giving up on him.” The words barely make it out over my raw throat and the boulder of emotion wedged in it.
Dallas’s eyes shine like the surface of a lake in the sun. I can’t remember ever seeing him cry. He won’t now, but if he blinked hard enough the tears would fall. “Okay. We won’t sign it then. Not until you’re ready.”
My brother doesn’t argue with me, which I appreciate because I don’t have the strength for a debate right now. And I know he’s right—Papa would be so angry knowing we’d let him lie there undignified this way. “I’m a veteran, for God’s sake,” he would tell us if he could. Dallas comes over and wraps his arms around me, holding me and whispering how much he loves me and how sorry he is that this happened over and over.
“I was supposed to make him meat loaf,” I say, because it’s all I can say. It’s all I have left, the hope that he’ll wake up and I’ll get to make him meat loaf and life will continue on as it is supposed to.
Four days pass before Dallas puts his foot down and tells me to go the hell home or he is checking me into the psych ward. He’s not kidding. I heard him telling Gavin he has twenty-four hours to figure out a way to get me home or he’s scheduling an evaluation here at the hospital.
I haven’t really eaten anything substantial and I haven’t showered. I look like the scary movie version of myself and I know it—I see it in the mirror when I use the tiny bathroom attached to Papa’s room.
“Just for one night, Bluebird. Come home, take a shower, eat an actual meal, and get a good night’s rest in your own bed. Then I’ll bring you right back here,” Gavin promises me day after day.
He and Dallas have been rotating shifts, and seeing how desperate they both seem to get me home, I realize they haven’t been coming to watch over Papa. They’ve been coming to keep an eye on me.
I’ve brushed his thinning silver hair, trimmed his fingernails, and shaved his jaw. Papa’s eyelids flicker from time to time, mostly when I’m telling him about Austin, and when we’re alone, about Gavin. Aside from that, not much has changed. I’ve played Oz twice and so far no one in the hospital has complained. After the first time, I thought Papa squeezed my hand but the doctors both said that was just a muscle reflex and didn’t mean anything.
When a nurse comes in and begins asking me all kinds of questions about myself—have I eaten, can she get me something to eat, do I ever think about hurting myself—I know she isn’t just making conversation. Dallas is worried about me and he finally consulted a professional.
When she leaves, I look over at Gavin, who is the current watchdog on shift. He’s snoring softly in the chair beside me. I lean on his shoulder, letting my head fall onto it and wrapping my arms around his. He slides his hand in mine and gives me a gentle squeeze.
“Okay,” I tell him quietly. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 29
FOR SOME REASON, I EXPECTED THE HOUSE TO BE MUSTY, LAYERS of dust accumulating on coffee tables and furniture like the abandoned ones you see in movies. But it isn’t. The pale yellow curtains are open and even the weathered wooden floors are swept. The house is neat and tidy. Warm. Lived in. Dallas and Gavin have been taking good care of it.