Chapter 24
Three days later, Avery’s hand rests warmly in mine as we walk together into the sand-colored brick building in Homestead where my father has lived for the past five years.
Of course, lived is a relative term. As Avery and I are greeted by a distracted twenty-something receptionist then directed toward the wing of the institution that’s reserved for full-time nursing care, I can’t help feeling the smallest pang of pity for the old man.
After spending his whole life on the water down in the Keys, this taupe-walled maze of corridors and sickrooms must feel like a damn prison.
A monotonous, prolonged state of hell.
Not that he hasn’t earned his piece of it in many ways.
Although to be fair, he isn’t the only Baine man to deserve a stint in hell.
“You must be Dominic,” says a heavy-set woman with big hair and a kind smile as we arrive at the attendant station in my father’s area of the home. The woman shakes my hand, then Avery’s, introducing herself as the afternoon floor manager. “I have to say, we were surprised to hear you were coming. And so soon. I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to Bill to know you’re here.”
It feels bizarre to hear her mention my father with such familiarity, as if she knows him. As if she actually cares about the surly son of a bitch. Maybe the stroke mellowed him.
Then again, William Baine only seemed to have problems getting along with his own son. Just another of the reasons I learned to hate him at a young age.
The woman gestures for Avery and I to follow her. “How long has it been since you came to see him, Dominic?”
“I haven’t. My father and I aren’t close.”
“I see.” I don’t miss the trace of judgment in her tone. It’s also in the flick of her gaze, the slight compression of her lips.
As we walk the length of the hallway, Avery’s fingers flex in my grasp, a reassuring reminder that she’s with me. That she will remain with me every step of this dubious journey.
I don’t realize how rapidly my heart is pounding, how damp my palms have gotten, until we’re approaching a room with a closed door. Its gauzy beige curtain is drawn across the narrow pane of glass, shrouding the unlit room and its lone occupant. To the right of the doorjamb is a removable name plate that reads William “Bill” Baine.
It’s been sixteen years since I saw him; now all that separates us is a few feet of pitted linoleum tile and the door I’ll have to walk through on my own volition.
The attendant lowers her voice. “Before you go in, I feel I should warn you that your father’s not doing well. He’s been declining for some time. I, ah, I don’t know if anyone has told you, but he’s in the early stages of kidney failure now. Usually that means we’re down to a matter of weeks before his organs begin to fail.”
“Yes.” I nod. “I’m aware.”
I feel Avery’s tender gaze on me, her soft inhalation when she hears this news for the first time. We haven’t spoken of what this trip will entail or what might wait for me on the other side of this door. She’s given me endless patience this week, allowing me all the time and space I need to sort out my feelings in preparation for this trip.
More importantly, she’s given me her love.
“Just so you understand, Dominic, even if your father is awake, he won’t be able to speak to you. But he can hear, so whatever you’d like to say to him, know that he will understand even if he no longer has the ability to express himself or respond.”
I grunt, struck by the irony.
After all the times his words wounded me, now it’s my turn to pay him back.
The woman looks at her watch, then offers me a polite smile. “I’ll be at the nursing station where we just came from if you need anything. Take all the time you need.”
Avery and I stand there for a long moment once we’re alone. My feet feel rooted to the floor. My lungs seem to be drying up, making it difficult to get air.
“Are you okay?” Avery’s touch is feather light on my cheek. “If you’re not ready to do this now, we can come back—”
“I’m ready.” I brush my lips against hers in a brief kiss as I release her hand.
“I love you,” she says, clutching my face in her gentle palms. “I’m going to be right out here the whole time.”
My nod feels shaky. So does my hand as I reach for the latch on the door. The tangle of scars turn white as I grip the cold metal lever and push the panel open.
The room is dark. So fucking quiet.
An empty bed sits closest to the door, but I hardly notice it as I approach the other one—the one containing a shriveled shape swathed in white sheets and a thin wheat-colored blanket.
I’m not going to lie, the sight of my father lying there is a shock.
The once tall, muscular man with jet hair like my own is so far diminished I never would have recognized him. Matted gray hair covers a skull cloaked in spotted, yellowed skin. Eyes I know to be the same bright blue as mine are closed in sleep, and the mouth that used to snarl such explosive, ugly things to me now sags on the left side, lasting evidence of the stroke that sent him to this place five years ago.
I am struck by his incapacitation, by how small he seems compared to the raging monster from my youth. His unmoving body is beyond thin, the long legs that used to carry him so agilely on the deck of his fishing boat now look skeletal beneath the sheets, incapable of supporting even his diminished weight. Stretched out along his sides, his arms are mottled with the bruising of old age and blood-thinning medicines.
The powerful fists that struck me only once—that last night I was in his house—lay gnarled and bony at the ends of his wrists like useless claws.
“Jesus Christ.”
An astonishing sense of sorrow swamps me as I stand beside his sleeping form. I don’t want to feel sympathy for him. After all, he never had any for me. He never had anything in his heart for me except animosity.
And doubt.
This last thing was the one that cut me the deepest. It’s the thing that moves me to speak to him now, even though he’s snoring quietly, fully asleep.
“Are you in pain, old man?” My voice is low and hoarse with unwanted emotion as I stare down at him in the bed. “I wanted to think you would be. I thought I wanted to see you suffering.”
I take a breath and I’m shocked to hear the catch in my throat. I don’t want to feel anything for the uncaring bastard. I want to look at him with the same detachment, the same neglect that he always showed me.
But I can’t.
“You were my father, you son of a bitch,” I whisper thickly. “You were supposed to be there for me. You were supposed to protect me.”
I swallow past the knot of anguish and rage that I’ve been carrying inside me since I was an eleven-year-old boy. Its bitter taste fills my mouth now, as acrid as poison.
“You were supposed to love me. Goddamn you, Dad. You should’ve kept me safe from him.”
At that choked accusation, my father stirs on the mattress. His eyes stay closed, but I can see that his mind is wading through the cobwebs of sleep. Somewhere inside that shriveled shell of a man, he knows how he failed me.
Not only as a child, when I admired him and wanted to be like him. But later too. After my mother was gone and I was a grieving kid in need of kindness. So hungry for comfort I would have turned to anyone . . . and did, only to learn it came at an unthinkable cost.
I needed my dad years later, when I was a self-destructive, messed up teen. He wasn’t there for me then, either. Always pushing me away. Always ensuring I only had cause to avoid him, to hate him.
Hot tears streak down my face. I swipe at them angrily, furious with myself that once again—even after all this time—my father has reduced me to the weakling he always believed I was.
“Fuck.”
This is not what I wanted to do here. I didn’t come down here to cry at my father’s bedside. I sure as hell didn’t come here to cry for myself.
I glance over my shoulder toward the closed door. Avery leans against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor, her face turned askance, granting me the privacy she promised.
I didn’t have a plan for what I would say to him, or even what I hoped to hear. I still don’t know why I’ve come, other than to prove to her that I could.
For her—for us—I would do anything. I want to. But I can’t do this.
Not in front of him, even if he doesn’t realize I’m here.
I can’t do this in front of her.
Now that I’m in here, all I want to do is get the hell out of the room.
“Shit.” Shamed, I turn my face into my arm, drying my cheek on the short sleeve of my shirt. “You win, Dad. You were right. I’m a fucking pussy, just like you always said.”
I turn away from the bed and stalk out of the room on a harsh curse.
“Nick?” Avery’s confused, then disappointed look as I exit to the hallway just about kills me.
I don’t pause to explain. I can’t. “I need to get out of here.”
“Okay.”
She falls in at my side, hurrying along with me as my feet guide me on a swift, urgent path out of the building. I don’t breathe again until I’m in the parking lot.
Then, once I’m out of the medicinal stench of the building, all of the air in my lungs explodes out of me in a violent, wracking sob.