Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I pull into my parents’ short driveway, unconcerned with blocking them in or out. They went on a short trip to Wilmington for the weekend. Both of them have semi-retired, and they love taking weekend trips to the coast. I’m thinking they’ll want to fully retire there before long.
I make a mental note to grab today’s mail for them before I leave and head into the Simmonses’ house. As usual, I give just a short knock to announce my presence, but I walk right in.
“It’s me,” I call out, not overly loud but enough to drift up the stairs.
“Come on up,” Brenda responds. I can tell from the direction of her voice and the slight echo that she’s in the kitchen. They have a big skylight over the sink area and over the years, I’ve come to recognize the way voices carry from that part of the house.
I come around the banister, my gaze going to the hospital bed in the middle of the living room. Jim is in it, and I’m struck by how small he seems all of a sudden. I know he went to the hockey game last night to watch Rafe play, and Brenda was so happy with how well he did. He insisted on walking, declining the use of the wheelchair that had been supplied by hospice.
But now I can see him sleeping deeply, undisturbed by my entrance into his home. He makes a slight snoring sound, and his chest rises and falls deeply.
I look away and move into the kitchen. Brenda’s at the sink, rinsing out a cup. Her gaze lands on me, and I see the worry there.
He was good yesterday, and now today...
“This is typical,” I remind her, answering the question in her eyes. She knows he’s going to have good and bad days. The hospice nurse was very clear about that and soon, the bad will outnumber the good. “Take the good days and treasure them.”
Her eyes mist up, and she nods.
“Where’s Rafe?” I ask her. Since they clinched this round of the playoffs, he has the next four days off, and I just assumed he’d be by his dad’s side.
Brenda’s gaze shifts to peer out the window over the sink that overlooks the back yard. “He’s out there, weeding.”
I move over to the sliding glass doors on the other side of the small kitchen table and look out past the deck. Sure enough, Rafe is on his hands and knees in one of Brenda’s flowerbeds, now only sporting daffodils that lost their blooms a few weeks ago. I imagine Brenda hasn’t been in much of a gardening mood since they got Jim’s diagnosis.
I study Rafe.
We’ve been apart for eight years, and yet I clearly recognize the frustration and anger in his posture. The way his upper back is hunched, shoulders dipped and frozen in place. His plucking at the weeds is stiff and mechanical.
“He’s been out there since his dad fell asleep a few hours ago,” she says, her voice tinged with sadness. “He sat by that hospital bed for a full hour, waiting for him to wake back up. I can tell he’s having a hard time processing all this.”
My heart cramps a bit. “He’s had such huge upheaval in his life,” I murmur to Brenda. “Finding out about Jim, moving to a new team. I’m surprised he’s not pulling your good plants out.”
Brenda chuckles. “Me, too.”
I turn to her, struck by the worry on her face for her son. She has enough on her plate without having to shoulder concern for Rafe, too.
“I have an idea,” I say, unsure how wise this will be, but committed all the same.
Without another word, I open the sliding glass door and step out onto the sunny deck. It’s elevated and several steps down. The slapping of my sandals against the weathered wood catches Rafe’s attention, and his neck twists to take me in.
I would have felt better if I’d seen some emotion on his face—irritation at me, or pain over his father. I would even feel good at seeing something like regret or longing for better days. Instead, I see nothing.
His eyes are flat, and his mouth slackens before he turns back to his weeding. I watch him as I approach, and see he’s doing nothing more than rearranging small nuggets of bark mulch. I have to wonder if he’s completely shut down.
“Get up,” I command as I reach where he’s hunched over in the flowerbed.
His body jerks as his head snaps my way. “What?”
“Get up,” I repeat. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Out of here,” I reply and then turn on my heel. I make my way back up the staircase of the deck and head into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Brenda asks softly as I slide the door closed behind me.
I smile at her, my expression reassuring and slightly mischievous. “I’m taking your son out for some fresh air. Tell him I’ll be waiting in my car.”