by Freya Barker
“Have you seen Frank recently?”
“I’ve talked to him. Apparently he prefers no visitors.”
“Yeah, that’s what he told me too,” the man says, sounding annoyed. “Come to find out, just now from one of his buddies, Enzo Totti, Frank is at his end stage.”
“How the hell does he know?”
“Apparently one of Frank’s nurses is his niece.”
That feeling of doom only gets heavier. I’ll admit, I hadn’t thought much about the man while I was inside, but that’s changed since he sat me down for a talk a month ago.
“I’m driving out there,” I announce, my plans changing on a dime.
“Was hoping you’d say that. Otherwise I’d have gone and you would’ve been stuck with the bar.”
That would’ve been a disaster, since I don’t have the first clue how to run a bar. Besides, I owe the old man.
“I’ll keep you up-to-date.”
“That’d be good. Give the old coot my love.”
Before I can say I will, the line goes dead and I head back to the shop.
“I thought you were leaving?” Jimmy says, poking his head up from the engine he’s working on.
“I am, but I’m going to Clare. Just got word Frank Hanson’s dying. Don’t know if I’ll be on time, but I won’t be leaving until he breathes his last.”
I know don’t have to explain to Jimmy why that is important, he seems to understand and nods right away.
“Of course. Go. Stay in touch. Do you need money?”
“I’m good. Thanks, Jimmy.”
With that, I head up the steps to my apartment where I throw an overnight bag together, remember a book and the charger for my phone, and return downstairs.
Jimmy’s waiting by my truck.
“Here. Just in case.” He slaps some money in my hand. “Makes me feel better.”
I pin him with a long hard look, before giving in with a nod. I shove the bills in my pocket, climb behind the wheel, and peel out of there.
Half an hour later, I walk into the main entrance of the one-story building and aim for the desk in the lobby. A gray-haired woman, probably in her sixties, smiles up at me when I approach.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Frank Hanson.”
She dials her smile down to a sympathetic one immediately.
“Are you family?”
Without blinking I respond, “The only one he has.”
It’s not exactly lying.
“Room seventeen, in the south wing.” She points at the hallway to the left. “Check in at the nurses’ station first.”
I can’t find a nurse, but I find Frank.
Christ.
He looks much smaller lying down. His eyes are closed and his whole face has sunken in on itself. I stand there for a moment, watching to make sure his chest is still rising.
“Sir?”
I turn to find a nurse with a stern expression on her face.
“I’m here to sit with Frank,” I announce, and stare her down. She glances past me into the room at Frank’s prone body, and then looks at me again.
“He didn’t want anyone here.”
“I know. I’m still here to sit with him.”
A faint smile breaks through as she nods.
“Don’t let him chase you off.”
“Don’t plan to.”
She gives me a little shove into the room and I take the chair beside his bed.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when his eyes blink open and stare straight at me.
“Always were a stubborn little shit,” he rasps, barely moving any air.
His fingers twitch on the bedspread, and without thinking I reach for his hand.
“Damn straight,” I tell him, folding my hand around his.
I couldn’t be there for my mother or my sister, and I sure as fuck am not going to let another person I care about die alone.
Whether he wants to or not.
Chapter Thirteen
Robin
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m already sick of winter.”
I look up to find Mom staring out the kitchen window at the snow coming down again. I can’t remember the last time we’ve had this much snow so early in the season.
She’s been a little subdued since I picked her and Paige up earlier today, and I suspect it’s the holidays affecting her more than the actual weather.
I put a hand in the middle of her back and lean in to kiss her cheek.
“Are you missing Dad?” I ask carefully.
It’s not really something we talk about often. Not anymore. Time just seems to move along, and what was at first a gaping hole, slowly fills in with everyday life.
I’m shocked when she turns to face me, the glisten of tears in her eyes.
“You know I loved your father to distraction, right?”
I drape my arm around her and give her a little squeeze.
“Of course I know.”
“I met someone,” she blurts out, and I see guilt written all over her face.
I ignore the small pang of hurt and smile at her encouragingly. Inside me a battle rages between the selfish need to hang on to that perfect memory of my parents’ love, and my mother’s happiness.
“That’s wonderful,” I force my lips to form.
“He is,” she mumbles, returning her gaze to the softly falling snow. “He moved in two doors down, the week I stayed with Paige in New Jersey. He helped me with my suitcase when I got home. We bumped into each other a few times, and one day last month he gave me a hand with my groceries and stayed for dinner.”
“Tell me about him,” I encourage her.
She faces me again and I see a little blush high on her cheeks.
“His name is Ken. He recently retired from the police force and wants to travel. With me,” she adds hesitantly.
I swallow down the knee-jerk ‘mom’ speech I want to give her, remembering just in time this is the woman who raised me and not the other way around. Still, it pays to be cautious.
“How did that come about?”
“We’ve spent a lot of time together and—”
“That’s awesome, Gram.” I hadn’t heard my daughter walk in. “Glad you’re getting some,” she says, a big grin on her face.
I close my eyes. I don’t care I’m in my forties; I still don’t want to think about my parents getting some, especially with strangers.
“Paige!”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Gram’s still got it goin’ on. When we went out to dinner her last night in Newark, the waiter was totally hitting on her. Right, Gram? And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a day over fifty.”
She’s right, my mother looks phenomenal at sixty-eight. It’s something I’ve never really thought much about because…well, she’s my mom. She has great skin, her face is still youthful, and she rocks her full head of chestnut hair. Besides, Mom doesn’t dress like an almost seventy-year old and always looks a bit artsy. Like now; in her faded boot-cut jeans, engine red finely knit tunic, and large chunky jewelry; she looks like she could’ve walked right out of a magazine.
Looking down at myself, I suddenly realize how much I’ve started mirroring her style.
“Now we just have to find someone for you, Mom,” Paige says. “Gram’s got Ken. I’ve got Josh.” He’s the new boyfriend we met in September. Nice kid and clearly smitten with my daughter. “It’s gonna be harder for you, because Beaverton doesn’t exactly have a large pool of single men, but I’m sure we can find you someone.”
My daughter. I love her, but her mouth often runs unfiltered. I don’t think she even realizes her words are a tad insensitive.
“But what happened to Gray?” Mom asks, and my daughter’s eyes immediately widen.
“Gray? Who’s Gray? You’ve got someone and didn’t tell me?”
Shit. I’ve been able to push him from my mind since not hearing a thing from him, not even after I stopped by Olso
n’s. The message now clearly received. For a while there, I imagined perhaps something was happening between us, but I guess that was wishful thinking on my part. Maybe he never looked at it the same way, or maybe he discovered he wasn’t ready for where it was heading.
Either way, I’ll get over it. I have what I need right here in this kitchen: my family.
“He’s someone I saw a few times but it didn’t pan out,” I tell Paige with a shrug, as I head to the fridge to pull out the pie dough I had chilling. “Time to start on those apples.” I indicate the large bowl on the counter.
We work in silence for a while, Mom and Paige peeling the apples, while I roll out dough for the three pie plates I buttered earlier. Don’t ask me why three, other than there’s three of us. A pie each may look like a lot, but spread it out over the four days of the long weekend and it’s not so bad. Right?
To keep my mind off him, I start thinking about Mom and this Ken-guy.
“Does Ken have kids or grandkids?”
“A son in the military. No kids there yet, he’s only twenty-five.”
Yikes. That’s just a few years older than Paige. I do some mental calculations.
“How old is Ken?”
I watch my mom closely and catch her glancing at me from the corner of her eyes.
“Fifty-five,” she mumbles.
“Go, Gram!” Paige shouts. She raises a hand for a high five, which my mother, smiling nervously, slaps with hers.
Jesus. Thirteen years. I wince when I think how much closer he is to my age. Only nine years difference there.
“Yeah, good for you, Mom,” I manage. “So what about this traveling? Where does he want to take you?”
“He has a time-share in Costa Rica.”
“That sounds nice,” Paige interjects. “Near a beach?”
Mom smiles at her. “On the beach, actually.”
“Oh my God, you have to go.”
Mom’s eyes flit to me and back to Paige.
“Actually, he’s leaving the middle of December. He’ll be there until March. Wants to get away from the cold for a bit.”
“And he’s asked you to come?” Paige drops her peeler on the counter and grabs for Mom’s hand. “Do it, Gram. You don’t like the cold either.”
I rip the crust I just rolled out when I try to lift it onto the pie plate. Swearing under my breath, I pound it back into a ball to start over again.
Three months. That would mean she’s gone over Christmas. Selfishly I don’t want to miss Christmas with her, but when I look at her face I can tell she’s tempted. Who am I to hold her back? Sure there are safety concerns—after all, she hasn’t known the man that long—but at least my mother is out there grabbing life by the balls.
“You should, Mom,” I tell her gently, and I watch her face brighten with surprise. “Time to enjoy life again.”
“But Christmas away from my girls…”
“It’s just a day,” I reassure her. “Paige and I will be fine.”
“Actually,” my daughter pipes up, a guilty look on her face. “Josh asked me to spend it with his parents in Florida.”
Double whammy. A gnawing feeling settles in my stomach as I realize the world is moving except for me. Don’t get me wrong, I want this for my two favorite people in the world, but it does make me realize how empty my life is. It also makes me wish things hadn’t ended the way they did with Gray.
“Of course, Sweetie.”
My smile is forced and everyone knows it, but still I roll a perfect piecrust this time. Better make the best of this Thanksgiving since it looks like I’ll be spending the rest of the holidays alone.
Gray
“Not long now.”
I look up to see Julie, one of Frank’s nurses come into the room.
Frank was awake from time to time the first couple of days I was here, but that waned with the high doses of morphine they’re giving him to keep him as comfortable as possible. I haven’t seen his eyes open in the past twenty-four hours.
I rented a room in the motel across the street for a place to dump my stuff and occasionally grab a few hours of sleep or a shower, but the bulk of my time I’ve sat right here by his side, holding his dry, papery hand. Listening to his breath, which has become quite superficial.
The few times he was alert, he didn’t speak much until the last time, yesterday morning.
“Good things come to those who wait is a load of shit,” he said, his red-rimmed eyes clear, burning in mine. “Fucking go after what you want, son. Chase it. It’ll be over in a blink.” The hand in mine gave a squeeze. “Don’t waste your life waiting.”
I’ve been sitting here, thinking on those words since he drifted off. Already I’ve spent a lot of years waiting, at the mercy of others. I think I stopped thinking about what I wanted until I first saw Robin. I definitely wanted her.
Want, not wanted, it’s not like I stopped.
Things aren’t always as easy as that though, are they? Going after what you want, chasing dreams. It’s not always about you. The fact I’m sitting here, by Frank’s side, is testimony to that. He wanted to die alone; I needed to see him off. The outcome is the same but the path not that clear-cut.
I want Robin but I’m not sure I’m what she needs. Still, with Frank’s last words on a loop in my head, I want to see if maybe there’s a way. If she’s still willing to try.
I watch as Julie takes a sponge swab from the glass on the nightstand and moistens Frank’s dry lips.
“How can you tell?”
“Years of experience.” She drops the swab back in its glass and checks his IV.
“Why do you do it? This work,” I clarify.
She stills her hands and smiles at me.
“Because no one should leave this earth alone.”
“He wanted to.”
“No, he didn’t,” she disagrees, running a gentle hand over his sparse hair. “If he did, he wouldn’t have come here.”
She turns away from the bed and I expect her to walk out of the room. Instead she grabs a chair from against the wall and places it on the other side of the bed, sitting down and taking Frank’s other hand in hers.
Less than an hour later, he breathes his last thin breath.
She doesn’t jump into action, but sits there a while longer, still gently stroking her thumb over his pale, lifeless hand. As if giving the reality of his death time to settle in. With me, and maybe even with her.
I didn’t know him as well as I did my sister and mother, but as I’m letting him go, I feel some of the guilt I’ve carried around their deaths let go as well. I’d like to believe, given the chance; I would have been there for them as well.
“I need to make some calls.” I stand, my knees creaking, and let his hand slide from mine.
“You can use the small waiting room down the hall.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, I leave Frank in her gentle hands.
“Olson’s”
Jimmy’s voice seems loud after hours spent in an almost silent room.
I take a seat in one of the club chairs in the room and drop my head back.
“It’s me. He’s gone,” I tell my friend, fatigue lacing my voice.
“Made it past Thanksgiving after all.”
“He did.”
“You okay, brother?”
It takes me a moment before I can answer.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now,” I confess.
After spending days by his bedside, it seems strange just to pick up where I’d left off. Sacrilegious somehow.
“Call his friends. Call Bunker. They’ll feel better knowing you were there. You can do that.”
“Okay. Do you have—”
My sentence is cut off with the ping of a message, and then another one.
“That’s the contact information for Enzo Trotti and Bunk’s cell phone.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“I should be back tomorrow. Unless
you want me to come back today?”
“No rush, brother. Take all the time you need.”
The line goes dead and for a moment I rest my eyes and get my emotions under control. Then I dial Enzo.
“Who’s this?” The bark on the other side startles me.
“Mr. Trotti, it’s Gray. Gray Bennet. I’m here in Clare, with Frank Hanson. He…um…he just passed away.”
“I know who you are, boy. Kicked you out of my restaurant enough times.”
Despite the circumstances, I bite back a smile. As teenagers, Jimmy and I would hit the pizzeria with barely enough money for a slice each, but we’d wait for other diners to get up so we could nick their leftovers. Usually until the waitress spotted the extra plates and beer glasses on our table and would call Mr. Trotti, who would toss us out.
“So the old coot is gone, is he?” The words may seem harsh, but the man’s feelings underneath are easy to detect.
“Yes. They kept him comfortable so he wasn’t in any pain,” I volunteer. “He woke up a few times and we talked some until yesterday. He never woke up again and maybe forty minutes ago he simply stopped breathing.”
“You were there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a good thing you did, son,” he mutters, and I can feel the approval down to my bones. “Things going down for you the way they did, it ate at Frank for years.”
“That wasn’t on him.”
“Think I don’t know that? The whole town carries some of that responsibility. People weren’t blind, but no one stepped in.”
“Was a long time ago, Mr. Trotti.”
“You tell yourself that, boy?” That shuts me up. “Didn’t think so. And fucking call me Enzo, that Mr. business makes me feel old.”
“Sure thing.”
“Gray?”
“Yes, Mr…Enzo?”
“Got a pie waiting with your name on it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Robin
I don’t know if it’s the weather—which has been cold and gloomy—or the fact I don’t have Christmas with my family to look forward to, but my ass has been dragging since Thanksgiving.
