Writing Mr. Right

by T. K. Leigh

  I turned into Columbus Park and plopped down on a vacant bench, finally letting out a breath. I closed my eyes, using the time to think. When my phone buzzed again, I glanced at the screen. Relief washed over me when I saw Drew’s photo pop up.

  “Drew,” I answered. “What—”

  “Molly,” he interrupted, a quiver in his tone.

  “Drew?” I repeated, dread forming in the pit of my stomach. “What is it?”

  “It’s Dad.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BARELY ABLE TO BREATHE through the lump in my throat, I rushed into the nursing home, ignoring Reggie at the desk, and ran frantically through the maze of hallways. I’d walked this same path countless times before. It never seemed to take as long as it did this afternoon. Hesitating briefly when I finally reached my father’s room, I pressed my hand against the closed door, unsure of what to expect once I crossed the threshold.

  With shaky hands, I pushed the door open and stepped into the living area. It appeared precisely as it had the last time I saw my father. A copy of The Great Gatsby sat on the side table, a shoestring marking where we had stopped about two-thirds of the way through.

  I continued past the sitting area and approached the bedroom. When I saw my father’s palliative care team surrounding his bed, my heart caught in my throat. I raked my gaze over my father’s body as he lay there, his skin a blueish tint, his breathing shallow. I shook my head, wiping at my nose. Nothing made sense.

  Five days ago, the executive director, Dr. Connors, had alerted us that my father had come down with the flu. I was concerned, particularly because of his fragile state, but they assured me it was mild and he’d been responding well to antibiotics. Unfortunately, due to his increased vulnerability to catching another infection or illness, he hadn’t been permitted any visitors while it ran its course. Yesterday, Dr. Connors had called Drew with an update and indicated my father was feeling better, that it should only be a few more days before he could have visitors again. How could he have gone from improving to barely alive in the span of less than twenty-four hours?

  I released a small cry. Drew’s head shot up immediately from where he sat in a chair, holding my father’s hand.

  “Molly.”

  “What happened?” I squeaked out, meeting Drew’s bloodshot eyes.

  He wiped his cheeks, then cleared his throat. “It’s his time, Molly.”

  Color drained from my face. I heard what Drew said. I just couldn’t register what his words meant. He could have been speaking Chinese. I looked around the room, wanting someone to explain to me how a man who seemed healthy and normal a week ago could now be struggling to breathe.

  “Ms. Brinks.” Dr. Connors, an older man with graying hair, stepped toward me, sympathy etched on the lines around his eyes. I didn’t buy it for a second. He didn’t care. This was just another day at the office for him. He’d go home tonight, probably pour a glass of wine, watch whatever TV shows he liked, and forget a family had been torn apart just hours ago.

  “He was showing signs of improvement yesterday. An orderly tried to wake him for breakfast this morning, but was unable to. He noticed he was having difficulty breathing. It’s our belief he came down with pneumonia. He’s been in acute respiratory failure all morning.” He shook his head. “Because his body had been fighting the flu for the past week, he had nothing left when the pneumonia hit. His immune system was too weak.”

  “Then give him something! More antibiotics! Something!” I shrieked.

  “More antibiotics won’t help at this point,” Dr. Connors stated very matter-of-factly. “We tried providing oxygen without the use of extraordinary measures, but it’s not enough. The oxygen level in his blood is too low. As you know, your father has a DNR, or AND, in accordance with his advanced directive, so we can’t intubate. All we can do is make him as comfortable as possible.”

  I shook my head, fighting back the tears that wanted to break free. I felt dizzy. Every time I tried to capture a breath, my lungs constricted, not allowing me enough oxygen. I couldn’t imagine what my father was enduring.

  “I’m sure you two would like to say your goodbyes.” He nodded to the care team and they filed out of the room, leaving me alone with Drew and our father.

  I wanted to pinch myself so I would wake up from this nightmare I found myself in. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I knew Alzheimer’s was a terminal disease, but there was a small part of me that thought by giving him the best care possible, it wouldn’t be for him. He was my daddy. He was invincible. He was supposed to live forever.

  Drew got up and led me to a chair, helping me sit down.

  “What about Aunt Gigi?” I looked at him. I’d been so distraught after his phone call I didn’t even think to stop by the café to tell her.

  “I called her after I got in touch with you. She knows.”

  “Is she coming?”

  He shook his head. “She’s already made her peace with it. She said she’d rather remember Dad as he was the last time she visited and brought him some of her Braciole.” A small smile appeared on his face. My father loved Gigi’s Braciole.

  Returning my eyes to my dad, I tried to stop my chin from quivering. I’d read his healthcare directive over and over again. He wanted to die with dignity, not be kept alive for days or weeks because of a machine helping his lungs breathe or his heart beat. When he was diagnosed, he knew the risks associated with this disease. This was what he wanted. It didn’t make it any easier.

  I knew it was selfish, but I didn’t care if my father didn’t want to be hooked up to machines. If they could keep him alive, I didn’t give a damn how long those machines breathed for him. Maybe all he needed was a little bit longer until he could breathe on his own. I knew I was grasping at straws, but I just couldn’t come to terms with the idea of saying goodbye to him. What was I supposed to do without him?

  I hooked my fingers through his cold, frail hand, holding out hope for some sign of sustainable life. “Wake up, Daddy,” I begged quietly, wiping my tears. Leaning down, I placed a kiss on his pale cheek. “We still haven’t finished reading The Great Gatsby.”

  I wrapped my arms around his still body. Regret filled me. I would have given anything to go back in time and hug him a little tighter, tell him I loved him a few more times, spend a little more time with him instead of rushing off on whatever date I had planned that night.

  “Don’t go,” I whispered.

  A movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I shot my head up to see Noah rushing into the room, his gaze frantic. “I came as soon as I could,” he said, out of breath.

  I stood up and he pulled me into his arms. I buried my face in his chest. Despite my confusion regarding my feelings toward him, this was what I needed. Only his arms could give me the reassurance I needed that I was strong enough to make it through what was arguably the worst day in my life. Everything seemed to be falling apart.

  Dr. Connors barreled into the room. “Dr. McAllister, I don’t think—”

  “I’m not here in an official capacity,” Noah interrupted, his face flush. “I signed in as a visitor.”

  Dr. Connors formed his lips into a tight line.

  “He can stay,” Drew insisted. “My father granted me power of attorney. I’m allowed to make any healthcare decisions on his behalf that aren’t covered in the DNR or advanced directive. This man is part of our family.”

  “This facility dictates our visitor policy, not any power of attorney you may have.”

  “Are you really going to argue about this when our father is about to take his last breath?” Drew’s temper flared.

  Dr. Connors glared at him, then blew out a frustrated sigh, his irritation with the situation clear. “Fine.” Instead of retreating, he stayed, probably worried about Noah being present. Within moments, a few members of the palliative care team returned, an eerie silence falling over the room.

  “Will it hurt?” My voice ripped through the stillness. I looked up at N
oah. He opened his mouth to respond, but Dr. Connors cut him off.

  “No, Ms. Brinks.”

  I turned my attention to him. “How do you know?”

  “He’s been given something to make him comfortable.”

  “So that’s it? You give him drugs to make him comfortable, but do nothing to fight the infection or help him breathe?”

  “Ms. Brinks,” he began, “we’ve been over this. We’ve given him all the antibiotics we can. Your father has specific instructions regarding what lifesaving measures he wants. Our hands are tied.” He shook his head. “We can’t go against his wishes.”

  A shaky breath echoed in the room and all eyes turned to my father. I pushed out of Noah’s embrace and rushed to the chair beside the bed, taking my dad’s hand in mine. He wheezed, the staff looking on as if this were normal.

  “Will someone do something!” I bellowed, looking up through my tear-filled eyes. “He’s dying.” I shot my gaze to Noah. “Please,” I begged in a small voice. “Don’t let him go.”

  He pinched his lips together, the lines around his eyes creasing with worry. He slowly shook his head, then opened his mouth. He spoke, but I couldn’t make out the words. All I knew was he refused to intervene. In that moment, I despised him.

  Relentless tears streaming down my cheeks, I rested my head on my dad’s hand, clutching it tightly as Drew rubbed my back. I didn’t care that a room of mostly strangers witnessed my meltdown. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  I didn’t know how long I sat there, trying to comfort my father as his breathing became more and more shallow. A movie of all the fun times we shared played in my mind — the trips to the beach, sledding down the steep hills at the park, swimming in the town pool during the summer, reading. Who was I going to read with now?

  A hand shook my shoulder. I sat up and looked into Drew’s eyes as he stood over me, tears staining his cheeks. Noah stood just beyond him, unease on his face. I blinked repeatedly, realizing the room had grown silent. Too silent.

  “He’s gone, Molly,” Drew choked out.

  A chill trickled down my spine at those words. I turned my eyes back to my father, no longer able to make out his chest rising and falling through my blurred vision.

  Dr. Connors approached and pressed his stethoscope against my father’s chest, listening for way too many anxious seconds. Straightening, he checked his watch, then looked at one of the nurses, who was holding a clipboard.

  “Time of death: 12:39, September six.”

  In a daze, I stared straight ahead, barely processing what just happened.

  “Take your time,” Dr. Connors said with sincerity. “When you’re ready, someone will be waiting to discuss the next steps.” He nodded at the care team and they filed out of the room.

  I looked at Drew, terrified at the notion he was all I had left. He touched my elbow and helped me from the chair. “I may as well get this over with and talk to someone about what we have to do now.” He ran his hand over his weary face. “Will you be okay for a minute?”

  Still in a daze, I simply nodded.

  He placed a soft kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be right back.” He retreated from the room, his shoulders slightly slumped.

  Once Drew left, Noah stepped forward. “Molly, I’m so—” He tried to hug me, but I slinked away.

  “I don’t want your apologies.”

  Betrayal flowed through my bloodstream as all the pieces clicked into place. The phone call Noah received this morning. The hesitation in his eyes. The sympathy etched on his face. I couldn’t help but think this was why he left so abruptly. He knew my father was on death’s door when he kissed me and swore he loved me, yet had said nothing.

  Spinning on my heels, I rushed out of the room, down the maze of corridors, and out of the building. The sadness that had consumed me as I watched the man who gave me life draw his last few breaths had been replaced with unparalleled anger, obscuring my vision. My suspicion that Noah was most likely aware of my father’s condition this morning made the ache in my heart even more pronounced.

  “Molly! Wait!” a voice called out as I barreled through the parking lot and toward my car.

  I paused just outside my car door, fire in my gaze. “What do you want, Noah?” I wished a tornado would come and whisk me away to Oz or somewhere. I had enough drama in the past few hours to last a lifetime. I kept running through all the stupid jokes my father used to tell that made me laugh until I cried. Now they only made me more upset. I could still hear his warm voice in my head telling joke after joke, regardless that I’d already heard them a thousand times.

  Why didn’t the melons get married? Because they cantaloupe.

  Did you hear about the guy who broke both his left arm and left leg? He’s all right now.

  People wonder why I call my toilet The Jim instead of The John. It’s so I can say I go to The Jim first thing every morning.

  Fighting back my tears, I took a long breath, my eyes becoming narrow slits. “I can’t even stand to look at you, Noah,” I choked out. “You just watched me say goodbye to my father and you did nothing!”

  “Molly…” He reached out for me, but I avoided his touch.

  “I begged you, Noah! You saw how upset I was, yet you let him die.”

  “Do you think I wanted to be in that position? I wasn’t here today as a doctor. I came to offer you support,” he explained, his shoulders falling. “Even if I were here as a doctor, I still couldn’t go against your father’s wishes just because you wanted me to.”

  “I get it. Your job responsibilities come first. Now I know why you didn’t say anything when you got that phone call this morning. You knew my dad was dying and said nothing.” I spun around, opening the door to my SUV. I knew I sounded completely irrational, but I was upset, angry, at a loss. I needed to take it out on someone.

  “You know damn well that’s not true, Molly!” His voice was strong, almost violent. He clutched my arm and forced me to face him. “I had absolutely no knowledge of your father’s condition until Drew called me!” He loosened his hold, lowering his voice. “I was called to the hospital on an emergency case…a young woman who’d been having unexplained seizures. When Drew called to tell me what was going on, I rushed right over.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I scoffed.

  “Goddammit! It’s the truth!” He gripped my biceps once more, fire and pain in his eyes.

  “Molly?” a voice called out. “Is everything okay?”

  Releasing his hold on me, Noah jumped back as we both snapped our heads to see Drew heading toward us, his eyes wide with concern. I took the opportunity to make my escape. I jumped into my car, slammed the door, and peeled out of the parking lot. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I could see the surprise and confusion plastered on both their faces.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “MOLLY,” DREW WHISPERED, NUDGING me as I sat in an uncomfortable chair, staring at a giant photo of my father that had been placed on an easel. His dark eyes had so much life. His smile was contagious. Anyone could see how much charisma he had. He looked nothing like the man he’d become in his later days.

  A blank expression on my face, I turned to Drew.

  “We need to start. We can’t wait any longer.”

  “Five more minutes?” I begged.

  “We’ve already waited five more minutes…several times.”

  Biting my lip, I closed my eyes.

  “If you don’t feel comfortable speaking, I can do it for you,” Brooklyn interjected, clutching my hand.

  I faced her, giving her a small smile. I didn’t think I would have been able to get through the past few days without Drew and Brooklyn. She’d pretty much been living at my apartment while I went through the motions of getting ready to say goodbye to my father. She’d even taken it upon herself to turn Noah away each and every time he came to see me. She never pushed me when I refused to talk to him, although I knew she didn’t exactly agree with how I was treating him. She was a good friend…bett
er than I’d ever been to her.

  “I can do it,” I assured her, then returned my eyes to Drew. “We can start.” I glanced past him to a chair with a reserved sign on it. I didn’t know why I’d hoped my mother would be here. She’d never shown up to anything else in our lives. Why start now? I supposed I had some misguided hope that she still cared about my father. I guess I was wrong.

  Drew offered me a tight smile, then nodded at the priest. Father Russo had been hesitant to agree to lead the memorial service since it was being held at the local Sons of Italy, not a church, and my father had been cremated, but Aunt Gigi worked her magic, as she always did, and the Father had come around.

  When Father Russo approached the podium and started the service, I zoned out, as I’d often done over the past several days. I’d lost count of the number of times Brooklyn caught me standing in the hallway of my apartment, staring into space. I would have given anything to have just a few more days with my father. To have spent more time with him when I was growing up. To talk to him more, instead of locking myself away in my room.

  After listening to several people say a few words, I felt a squeeze on my arm. I shot my eyes to Drew. “It’s time, Molly,” he said.

  “Oh.” I looked at the small stage, Father Russo’s eyes encouraging me. I gingerly raised myself onto my unsteady legs and made my way up to the podium. I scanned the large number of people who had come to pay their final respects. Judging by the sheer size of the crowd, it was more than apparent Vincenzo Brinks…or Enzo, as most people called him…was well-liked in our tight-knit community.

  “When I was eight, my father bought me my first journal,” I began in a small voice. “I needed a way to let out my feelings, and being an eight-year-old girl without a mother limited my options. So I began to journal. And I still journal to this very day.” I clutched the podium, briefly looking down before returning my eyes to my father’s friends and family.

  “Four days ago, after I watched Dad draw his very last breath, I went back to my apartment, feeling lost. I’d never known a world without my dad in it.” I struggled to fight back my tears. “Needing the comfort of an old friend, I took out my journal and started to write. But I could only think of four words… My father is gone. I wrote those words over and over.” Biting my quivering lip, I shook my head. “Even after seeing pages and pages of that one line, the truth of it didn’t sink in. Standing up here, I can admit it still hasn’t. I don’t know if it ever will. Every time I’ve gone down into our café, I feel him there. I can hear him singing as he wipes down the counters. I can see him interacting with the customers, telling those stupid jokes over and over again. And I can feel the love he had for life.