THERE ARE MOMENTS in life which remain crystal clear no matter how much time passes. Catching my first fish at ten. Driving a truck when I was eight. Cutting my leg with a chainsaw at fifteen. Pops had been there for most of them.
I remembered nothing of the drive to Coupeville with Cara. I sat in the passenger seat of her car, numbly listening to her say things. She could have been speaking Chinese for all I understood. Blood rushed through my ears, muffling my thoughts and drowning all sounds beyond the thrum of my heart beating.
Cancel that. I remembered the drive taking forever, and at one point yelled at Cara to quit driving like an old man. Wrong choice of words. She burst into tears and I had to hold the wheel while she searched for a tissue in her purse.
She parked in the lot, taking up two spaces, but I didn’t comment. I fought the urgency to run into the hospital, but there was no point in running.
Cara led me down a different hall in the other wing, away from the new life in the maternity ward. Silence greeted us when we turned the corner into a quiet waiting room. It smelled of disinfectant and the sterile sickness of hospitals. Family occupied two rows of seats, but no one spoke. Some napped, twisted and contorted into the uncomfortable chairs. Others stared at the muted TV, sipping weak coffee from tiny paper cups.
My eyes settled on Gramma in the corner. Mom sat next to her and held her hand. Ellie was the strongest woman I knew, the matriarch and real head of the family. She was the heart and hope for us all. Today she appeared old and withered. Her hair, always perfectly done, was mussed as if she hadn’t brushed it, and her clothes were mismatched as if she dressed with the first things she could find.
I walked toward them and crouched down to hug my grandmother. Her arms swept around my neck and she held on tight while my mother patted my back.
“Oh, Tom, thank God you’re here. We’ve been so worried about you,” Gramma said, giving me a tiny smile. In her hand she clenched a handkerchief she’d twisted with worry. “We thought you might have been hurt in the storm, too.”
Mom stood and said she needed a coffee. “We’ll find you some tea,” she told my grandmother, who absentmindedly nodded. Amy came over and took Mom’s seat. I scanned the room for Dad.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked when we were away from the family.
“He’s talking with the doctor.” Her face crumpled and she sagged into my side. “Tom, it’s bad. Really bad.”
Words from Cara’s ramblings in the car echoed in my head: head injury, stroke, coma, non-responsive in the ambulance.
“Mom, he’s stronger than any of us. Pops isn’t going to let a slip on some ice take him down.” I ducked my head and gave her a confident smile despite my heart racing with fear.
She returned my smile, but her eyes filled with tears. “The doctors don’t think he’s going to make it. We haven’t told Ellie yet. He hasn’t been responsive at all, and he was out on the ice for over an hour before we found him.”
I couldn’t wrap my head around her words. “What was he doing outside in the storm?”
“They refused to come over and stayed in their little house. He went out to get more firewood for the stove and fell. Ellie was napping and didn’t know. She called the house asking for him.”
The image of my strong, larger than life grandfather lying cold and alone nearly broke me. My knees weakened and I faltered in my step. Clifford Donnely could not die. Not now. Not like this.
I punched the wall with my fist and then rubbed the sting with my other hand.
Mom stopped. I followed her gaze and saw Dad walking toward us with hunched shoulders and bloodshot eyes. When he saw Mom standing there, he shook his head and she jogged over to him, enveloping his six-foot frame in her petite five-foot-three one.
Dad’s shaking body and Mom’s sobs knocked me in the gut, and I staggered.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t happening.
Tears skidded down my cheeks and ran into my beard. I bent over and put my hands on my thighs.
“No,” I whispered like a small, scared child. Once again I was the little boy who got picked on in elementary school until the bullies found out Clifford Donnely was my grandfather, and left me alone. Pops had always been my rock and my biggest champion. Didn’t matter if I didn’t make State or messed up another car, Pops would take me out on his boat or for some chowder and give me the talk. Sometimes it was a pep talk, more often than not it was a straight talk about not making a mess of things. He was both good and bad cop.
Shoes squeaked on the floor behind me, and my sisters crowded around our sad little group.
“Dad?” Lori asked.
Cara rested her hand on my shoulder. I covered it with my own and then stood upright. She hugged me and I hugged her, pulling Amy into the fold with my other arm.
“He’s gone, sweetheart.” Dad’s lip trembled and fresh tears spilled out. I’d only ever seen my father cry at happy times like the girls’ weddings or the birth of a grandchild, or when the Seahawks won the Super Bowl. I couldn’t stand to see him blubbering. I shrugged off my sisters and strode up to the man I’d idolized and knew I could never imitate. He pulled me into a hug, crushing my ribs. This wasn’t one of those man hugs with the arm pats. This was parent and child, sharing sorrow, loss, and heartbreak. Tears flowed freely down both our faces, mixing and dampening our shirts before we pulled apart.
“I’m glad you made it, son.”
I tried to speak, but my voice had disappeared and I coughed to clear my throat. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.” I snorted and tried to keep the snot from running down my face. Giving up, I wiped my nose and eyes on my sleeve. “I didn’t tell him how much I loved him.”
“He knew, Tom. He knew, trust me. None of us got to say good-bye, including Gramma.”
At the mention of my grandmother’s name, our collective eyes met. Mom’s face went blank. “We have to tell her.”
“I’ll do it,” Dad said, straightening his shoulders in resolve.
“We’ll come with you.” My sisters fell in step behind him. Mom and I stood for a minute in the hall. She and I were most alike. We buried our emotions down deep where they could be protected and not damaged. She patted my arm and handed me a tissue from her pocket.
As we gathered in the hospital room where Pops’ body lay, the collective space filled with sniffles and nose blowing. Cousins, aunts, and uncles who had been waiting or recently arrived crowded out into the hall. I was certain we broke some sort of hospital code, but Pops was a pillar of this community. Gramma stood near his head and said the Lord’s Prayer over his still body. I fought my own tears by squeezing Cara and Mom’s hands. At the end of the prayer, there was nothing more to say or do. We shuffled our feet; some touched Pops hands or rested a hand on his blanket-covered legs, saying a private, silent goodbye.
I had to get out of the stifling room before the walls closed in on me. I wove my way through family members until I reached the fresher air of the hall. Cara drove and I couldn’t leave until someone gave me a ride. Exhausted, I flopped into an empty chair in the waiting room, and put my head in my hands.
I lifted my head to find a frazzled Hailey standing a few feet away at the end of the row, her eyes already watering and her nose pink from earlier tears. She covered her mouth with her hand and stepped closer. Without thinking, I stood and awaited the comfort of her arms around me.
“Hailey!” Lori sobbed behind me.
Hailey’s fingertips brushed my hand as she passed me to hug Lori, who burst into tears, muffling her sobs in Hailey’s shoulder. I stood awkwardly in place for a minute, then swept my hand over the back of my head. I rubbed both hands over my beard, exhaling before collapsing in the same chair. The two friends cooed and soothed each other as women do in these situations. My knee bounced and I fidgeted, listening to the sounds of comfort.
“I need to get out of here,” I said out of the blue. “Lori, can I borrow your car?”
“It has Noah’s car seat.”
“He’s not even here.”
“I guess we could switch it into Mom’s car.” She frowned and I knew she really didn’t want to bother.
“You can borrow my car,” Hailey offered, digging her keys out of her pocket. “I’ll catch a ride with Lori and I can pick up my car at your house.” She held my stare for a few beats longer than normal, letting me know she’d stay if I needed her.
I caught the keys when she tossed them to me. “Thanks. I just . . . I need to be alone. I hate hospitals,” I muttered, backing away from them until I ran into a row of chairs. Grief saturated their faces. I couldn’t handle it. I stumbled and spun toward the exit. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Standing in the middle of the parking lot, I had no idea where to find the car. I closed my eyes, inhaled and slowly exhaled, staving off a growing sense of panic swirling around me. The need to get out, to go, to run and never stop built into a riptide, pulling me under. I inhaled an unsteady breath and opened my eyes as I exhaled. Clicking the key fob, I studied the rows for the flash of lights. I spied my salvation in the shape of a silver SUV a few cars down from Cara’s minivan.
At home I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and walked through the rain to my shop. I flicked on the overhead light and opened the doors to the cold, damp air. Sawdust clung to my wet boots as I paced the familiar space, touching old tools inherited from Pops, some he’d gotten from his father. Decades of use darkened the wood handle of a chisel. Knicks marred the top of a ball hammer. I spun the handle of the bench vice and chugged from the bottle. Every object held a story and wore its history proudly. I rubbed the scar on my left wrist, where I’d jabbed the blade into my skin while whittling with Pops on his porch. I’d needed ten stitches.
Bracing my hands on the bench, I hopped up and knocked over several newer tools that pinged and clunked on the cement floor. My boots beat against the uprights and rattled the bigger saws and tools underneath.
I was a coward. I didn’t say good-bye to my parents at the hospital. I ran away like a kid. The whiskey burned my throat and the warmth reminded me of the coming numbness.
Tires crunched on the driveway. With the doors wide open, I had a clear view of Lori’s car bumping through the ruts and puddles. I hopped off the bench and walked to the other side of the space, flopping into an old, beat-up recliner. I sipped from the bottle and then tucked it in the chair beside me. I didn’t feel like talking to my sister or seeing the sympathy in Hailey’s eyes.
Lori’s car whined as she reversed down the drive instead of turning around. I waited for the sound of Hailey’s engine starting.
“Tom?” Her fists pounded on the front door to the house. “You in there?”
I thumped my head against the worn upholstery of the chair. My head swam with the effects of too much whiskey, drank too fast.
“Tom?” she whispered from the opening to the shop. “You don’t have to talk. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Her boots paused before clumping closer until she stood next to the chair.
“Hi,” I said, glancing up, but not quite making eye contact with her. Instead I focused on her plump bottom lip.
“You want company?” She gestured to the bottle tucked next to me. “Or do you want to be alone with Jack?”
I shrugged and held up the bottle. “You want some?”
She took a small sip and squinted her eyes, coughing.
“Whiskey not your thing?” I swallowed more.
“No, I prefer tequila.” She met my eyes, her meaning hanging between us.
Tequila and Hailey were happier memories.
“Just so you know, I plan to wallow thoroughly. You can stay if you want, but if you’re disgusted by the sight of a grown man crying or put off by flying objects smashing pointlessly into walls and floors, you might want to leave now. I don’t want the judgment and I can’t stand the pity face.”
Without another word, she crawled into my lap on the disgusting sawdust-covered chair. “What should we break first?”
Despite myself, I laughed and pulled her closer. I didn’t know if it was from the booze or crying, but it didn’t matter, I felt relieved she was here. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks flushed, and the tip of her nose was pink. I leaned down and kissed it. She tilted her head and caught my lips with her own. My fingers found their way into her hair and tugged it, exposing more of her mouth to mine. The kiss fell into a desperate place, where we scrambled to find a hold to keep ourselves from sliding into the dark. I breathed like a drowning man, not sure if it was oxygen or her I needed more. My face dampened with tears, but I didn’t know if they were mine. She straddled me and I grabbed her breasts, needing to lose myself in her, to crawl outside of my sadness.
We didn’t speak, we only existed as bodies. My broken heart cried out, only to be muffled by her tongue in my mouth and her hand reaching inside my jeans.
With her hand enclosing me, she whispered against my ear, “Use me.”
I clamped my eyes shut against the world, narrowing my existence to my hand in her pants and hers in mine. Nothing existed outside us. I focused on her touch, the warmth of her breath when she kissed my neck, the softness of her skin, and her dark hair cocooning us. I wanted to tell her I loved the way she felt and say thank you for no reason. Instead I kissed her harder, my tongue slipping deeper into her mouth as my hands gripped her tightly.
We didn’t seek pleasure. We confirmed we lived.
When the shadow of death once again crept between us, a sob wracked through me. I tried to swallow it, and she stopped. I gave into my grief. Never had I felt so raw and vulnerable. Her fingers wove into my beard as she cupped my face in her hands. With a kiss to my forehead, her breath skimmed my skin, reminding me, showing me, we were still here.
She held me while I cried, and didn’t judge. After I calmed down, I felt sheepish and tried to apologize, but she kissed away my embarrassment. With a soft good-bye, she carefully stepped around the broken glass of the bottle on the cement floor when she left.