Grace
The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was watch my mother die. Or so I thought. As I spend another restless night, in the same room, watching my father fight for air through troubled sleep, I wonder if I can find the strength to do this all over again. Then I pray I won’t have to. I tell myself he’s going to be okay, even though I know it’s only a matter of time.
The chair at the foot of the bed creaks as I adjust myself against its narrow boundaries. The once sturdy wooden arms are now rickety and loose with wear. I’ve slept in this chair more nights than I care to admit over the past two years. As I sit here yet again, one leg draped over the side, my head bobbing and lolling against a back that doesn’t quite reach high enough to be remotely comfortable, I remember the night I moved it from its lonely corner in my father’s office into this bedroom. The weight of solid mahogany and polyester upholstery rested heavily on my shoulders. Or maybe it was the reason behind the move that weighed me down. If I’d known when we made the purchase exactly what role that chair would play in my life, I’d have put more thought into its comfort and less into its appearance.
“You don’t have to stand guard, Grace. I’m not going to run away,” my dad teases from beneath his pile of blankets. His voice is weak from the coughing fit that woke me from a much-needed nap.
I’d been home a whole two hours after pulling a twelve-hour shift at the hospital when the monitor in my bedroom alerted me of his irregular breathing. At times like these, I wish I’d taken his home health nurse up on her offer to stay, so I can get some sleep. But thanks to my long hours at work, she spends enough time away from her family as it is. So, in this chair I sit, whether he likes it or not.
“I’m not standing guard, Dad. I happen to like this chair.” Running my fingertips across my eyelids right now is the equivalent to scratching them with sandpaper. I need at least ninety-five more hours of sleep. He starts to say something, but I interrupt him with an unexpected loud yawn.
“Go to bed, Gracie. It was a little tickle. Nothing a glass of water won’t fix,” he says, dismissing the fact that he nearly coughed up a lung less than five minutes ago.
“Sleep is overrated,” I return with a smile, as I stand to get him a fresh drink. He grabs my wrist just as I touch the glass on his nightstand, his grip weak but firm.
“I mean it, Princess. You have a great big world out there to save. You can’t do that on little to no sleep.” His endearment cuts right to my heart. Our history with my career choice hasn’t always been pleasant.
My father used to be so strong, so full of pride. I look at him now, sunken cheeks, pale skin, and grey eyes lying beneath a pile of blankets to fight off an invisible chill, and my heart shatters to a million pieces onto the rich fibers of the wool rug under my feet. I peer into those grey eyes and see no less of a man today than I did two years ago, before he got sick and bound to a king-sized bed in a dimly lit room. He’s every bit as strong-willed and demanding as he ever was, and I am still his little girl. So, I obey. There’s something important I need to tell him, but my eyelids are heavy, and he’s drifting back to sleep. So, the talk will have to wait.
***
I don’t know if it’s been three days, three hours, or five minutes since I crawled into bed when the doorbell startles me awake. I rub my eyes and try to focus. Another chime. For the love of sleep, I’m coming already. I slip the comforter off my legs and climb out of bed. Ding Ding Chime. I swear, if it’s those “Your soul is doomed” pamphlet pushers again…
I glance at the windows as I pad across the hardwood floor of the living room. It’s dark out. I can’t believe I slept so long. I hope my dad is okay. I pop on my tip toes, peeking through the peep hole and spot Lucas, my sister’s nine-year old son. He’s alone. Where is Natalie? The fact that she’s not standing next to him shouldn’t surprise me. This isn’t the first time he’s rang our bell in solitude.
“Hey kiddo, where’s your mom?” I ask, ruffling his hair and holding the door open so he can come in. I peek out into the darkness just as a set of headlights backs out of the driveway. Thank God, my sister has good neighbors.
His face is so pale it’s almost transparent, and his eyes are locked on a vision one-hundred miles away. I grab his shoulders and force him to face me. “Lucas? What’s going on, love bug?” I’m trying not to let the panic that’s swarming around me show up in my voice. He finally glances up at me, and his eyes fill with tears. Oh no. Oh God. Please let my sister be okay.
“Mom’s asleep. And I can’t get her to wake up.” No. I won’t let her do this to him… to us. I mentally defy her as if I even have a choice. His tiny voice shakes with fear as his words spill from his lips. “I tried, Aunt Grace. I shook her.” He’s frantic, barely breathing, and tears stain his innocent cheeks. He ignores them as they continue to fall. “I yelled at her. I even poured a glass of water on her. She won’t wake up, Aunt Grace. She won’t wake up.” His voice gets louder with every syllable, and my heart is pounding and breaking all at once. I pull his little body against mine, holding him close as I rub the back of his hair. His sobs fill the quiet room. I don’t interrupt him. I just pull him closer. Where he’s safe. Where he’s loved.