July 29

I’m trying not to be a total asshole by resenting my father for having a heart attack. Of course I hope he’s all right, but having to see him and face my brother is not at all what I want to be doing right now, and all the good feelings I had at Madeline’s tonight are being corroded by dread with every mile I drive away.

I hated to leave her. I didn’t want her to know this, but I’ll admit that much to myself. The fact about her going to that much trouble cooking for me and making me laugh with the whole little kid thing really got to me. She’s unlike any other woman I’ve known.

Don’t want her to know that, either.

I jump on Route 1 and head toward Belfast to pick up Route 3. Since it’s a Wednesday night, the traffic isn’t bad, so I should be there a little after 9:00. I pick up my phone, command Siri to call the Hilton in Portland and make a reservation for tonight.

There’s a sprinkling of light rain on my windshield, so I flick on the wipers. Tonight will be the first time I’ll have seen my father and brother since I left the company two years ago. So there’s that.

Christ.

James sounded uneasy talking to me on the phone. He should, given what he did to me. And this brings up another potentially shitty situation: what if Brianne’s there, too? It’s not like I’m stressed that it’ll open up new feelings—any feelings I had for her died the second I learned she was banging my little brother. It’s more about the battle inside myself between knowing I need to be civil and really wanting to rip both of them a new one. But bottom line, my father is in the hospital, and I’m going to do my best to put all my negative feelings aside for him because it’s the right thing to do.

I hear my text notification, and I glance down at the center console to see my phone screen. It’s a short text from Madeline that makes me smile, despite my mood: I may or may not have opened your Play-Doh #sorrynotsorry. Thinking of you.

Man, I really wish I hadn’t had to leave.

I pull into the hospital parking garage at 9:07 and text James to ask what room our father’s in. I’ve been to Maine Med twice in the past ten years: once when I broke my wrist playing men’s league basketball, and once to sit beside my mother when she took her last breath. Hard to believe that was almost eight years ago.

Honestly, we all kind of fell apart after she died. She’d been the glue that held the family together. Small in stature, but one of the strongest people I’ve ever known—able to put up with Dad’s bullshit and temper tantrums, sometimes taking the brunt of it to spare James and me. My father changed after she died—his good moods, which were already few and far between, became basically non-existent. He worked ten to twelve hour days during the week and drank heavily on weekends, so my home visits from UNH became less and less frequent, even though I felt badly for James, who was still in high school and living at home.

I don’t want to make it sound like my father has no redeeming qualities. He’s a fiercely competitive, impressive golfer. He’s tough on the higher-ups in the company (like James and me) while being surprisingly kind and generous to people like his secretary, forklift operators and warehouse workers, and he donates a lot to charity. And obviously, he’s a brilliant business man. A dick most of the time, sure, but he took what was a family hardware store and turned it into a multi-million dollar corporation in a span of fifteen years.

So it’s the positive things about my father I’ll try to focus on as I walk through the sliding doors of the hospital’s main entrance and head to the elevators. It feels like I’ve got C-clamps all along my spine. I’m not a fan of hospitals anyway, but tonight’s got me all kinds of uneasy. The smell of antiseptic, medical staff hurrying past, the tense faces of family members...then throw in my traitor of a brother and a father I don’t like or speak to, and watch Jack lose his shit.

But I don’t. Not when I get off the elevator on the cardiac floor, and not when I see James down the hallway. He’s alone, thank God—no Brianne. I walk toward him, vaguely aware that the walls are painted a sage green, undoubtedly to promote a feeling of calm. It’s not working. James is dressed in business casual—a royal blue golf shirt and tan khakis.

I’m in what I guess you’d call “carpenter casual.”

My younger brother looks uptight, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s worried about Dad or stressed about seeing me. Probably both. I don’t care.

He gives me a quick nod but avoids my eyes, casting his gaze on the tile floor. It’s a jab to my gut, seeing my mother in him. He has the same light brown, wavy hair, same big hazel eyes.

I won’t do small talk. I mean, it’s been two years. “How is he?”

“He’s alert—insists that he’s fine, wants to go home...his usual grouchy self. Guess that’s a good sign.” James gives a quick, nervous laugh. “The cardiologist was just in—said it was a mild heart attack that’s a result of coronary artery disease. The EKG showed one blocked artery.”

“Is the doctor thinking surgery?”

“Fortunately no, not at this point. They’re going to try adjusting his meds, get him to make some lifestyle changes, and if those don’t work, he’ll probably have an angioplasty and a stent. Hopefully he’ll listen, but you know Dad—he pretty much does what he wants.”

“Yeah.” Call me a stubborn grudge-holder, but no way am I ready to be all in agreement with my little brother. “I’m gonna go in and see him,” I mutter, turning toward the door.

“Jack.” James’s voice has a hint of desperation to it.

I don’t look at him, but I stop.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry...Jesus, it sounds so inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got. I really am sorry. About everything.”

A little zinger in my chest, right about where my heart is. Part of me is thinking, this is your little brother—the one you used to make blanket forts and open Christmas presents and play HORSE in the driveway with—but the other part of me that still simmers with anger is telling me I’m not ready to forgive, not yet—not with all the shit he did to me both personally and professionally. So I tell him, “I don’t know what to do with that, James. I’m going in to see Dad now.”

I push open the door, the back of my neck feeling prickly as I take in the sight of John Decker lying in his hospital bed. He’s aged—I’m not sure if it’s from the heart attack or that I haven’t seen him in a long time, but he seems a lot older to me. Even frail, which is shocking, because after all, this is John Decker. His black hair, salted with gray, looks disheveled, but this isn’t out of the ordinary—he’s always been one to rake his hands through it when stressed out or pissed off, which was often. His skin looks a little pasty, and that, along with the absurdity of the hospital gown on this man is a bit unsettling. But his eyes are the same—dark, snapping with unwarranted disapproval and irritation. I may be imagining it, but it seems like they brighten up a little, seeing me.

“Jackson. You’re here.”

“Of course.”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

“This is where I should be. How are you feeling?”

“Good enough to go home.” Scowling, he lifts his arm and gestures at the IV. “And like I want to be unhooked.”

“It sounds like you’ll be able to avoid an operation, if you make some changes.”

“Yes. Easier said than done.”

“Staying out of surgery should be your motivation.”

He regards me closely and changes the subject. “Are you still working for yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Is it satisfying?”

“Very.” I don’t want to go down a road that will inevitably lead to a detour involving the past. Two can play the changing-subject game. “When are they going to let you out of here?”

“Tomorrow, most likely.”

“And you’ll have a follow-up appointment?”

“Jackson...you sound as though you care.” His eyes are veiled with sarcasm, but there’s some amusement in them, too.

“You’re my father.”

A dry laugh from the hospital bed, and suddenly, it feels like there is nothing more to say. Which is ironic, given that there’s so much we could say. But I don’t ask about the company, and he doesn’t bring up James, so the two of us sit in stale, awkward silence until thankfully, a nurse enters the room to check his vitals, and I use this as my cue to leave. I smile at her and address my father. “I’m staying in Portland tonight. I’ll have James keep me posted on how you’re doing. If it looks like you’re getting out tomorrow, I’ll head back early in the morning. I’m assuming James will be checking on you at home?”

He flicks a hand at me. “I’ll be fine. Won’t need anyone checking on me.”

The nurse catches my eye as she wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm. I give a little shrug and grin. This is so my father.

I tell him goodbye, and the door is closing behind me when I hear him call my name. I push it back open and look at him. I wouldn’t call it softness, because nothing about John Decker is soft, but his expression is lighter, somehow. He’s leaning slightly to look at me around the nurse.

“Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome, Dad.” I feel my voice start to catch a bit, realizing that I’ve called him Dad, and Jesus, I hope he didn’t hear me falter. I go quickly into the hallway, glad that my brother isn’t there anymore, because I just want to get out of here. I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling. A whole bunch of shit, really, swirling around and around inside me. I came to see my father more because I felt I had to, not because I wanted to, and that makes me feel guilty—but then I think back on what went down, those ugly feelings resurface, and I’m resentful and don’t want to deal with it. And then it’s back to the guilt.

Guess you could say I’m a ways from putting everything in the past, but mixed in there is a kid—the ten-year-old Callaway sees in me—hoping his dad will be okay.