Chapter 45

This weekend, I make a new playlist: every Bon Iver album I can find. I listen to them all on shuffle, headphones in my ears every chance I get. The songs go around and around in my head (some surprise me into liking them; others do not), and I can’t stop listening because I hope someday, somehow, they will help me heal.

On Saturday I sit and watch movies on my laptop with Papa and Tom while my sisters are at the beach. I offered to take them, but my mom insisted I stay in, claiming I looked a little under-the-weather. I didn’t argue with this because, yes, Mother, I’m under-the-weather and no, I won’t tell you why. I don’t know how to tell them what happened without disappointing them or bringing them grief, so I leave it alone for now. When they find out is not important, not with everything looming. I’ll tell them when the storm has passed.

The stomach ache I had yesterday hasn’t gone away, not really. I don’t eat much, either because I’m not hungry or I feel like I’m going to puke again. I’d hoped it would all disappear when I said goodbye to Levi, but in reality, I think I just have a small case of the stomach flu. Otherwise, I was dead wrong.

I wasn’t dead wrong.

I cannot be dead wrong.

I shuffle Bon Iver again. (I’ve started calling this playlist The Incredibly Painful Recovery Playlist.) I go into denial, about a lot of things. That I will never kiss Levi again, that he won’t look at me with happy, hungry eyes, that I won’t go back to TCP when all this is over. Reality hasn’t dawned yet.

Like everything else in my life, I’d like to keep it that way. (At least for a little while longer.)

My father’s surgery comes on Sunday morning, and I sit impatiently with Tom and my sisters in a waiting room full of equally impatient strangers. My mother paces in front of us, her body taut with stress and fear. But after six hours of waiting, we find out she has no reason to be afraid—none of us do—because the surgery went exactly according to plan. The tumors were removed, the flesh was sewn back together, the body was set to heal.

After another couple of hours, when he is once more awake and cognizant, we’re allowed to visit him. He smiles as much as he can, then sleeps until the nurse gives him more pain meds, and then he smiles some more.

After one of his many short naps, he calls me to his bedside with a quiet, “Hey, Baby Bee.” He holds out a hand for me, very slowly and carefully, and I take it as gently as I can.

“Daddy.” I kiss his forehead.

“Miss you, kiddo.”

“I’m right here.” It’s my turn to whisper, and only because I’m about to start sobbing. With relief, fear, exhaustion—whatever it is, it’s taking hold of my sensibilities (if I have any left).

“I know you are.” His face twists in pain for a moment, then untwists into ease again. “Ready for me to come home?”

I nod, smiling and teary. “Yeah.”

“Good. Me, too.”

We set Papa up in the coolest room in our house—the back TV room. It’s spacious enough for his hospice bed, with all the amenities: a bathroom close enough to rush to, a kitchen around the corner and a water dispenser close by. We put him close to the couch, which becomes Mama’s temporary bed.

It isn’t until after a few nights later that I decide I want to sleep there as well. So my mom and I trade off whenever we feel like it, and the nurse who comes daily to check on Papa puts up with all of our belongings trapped inside this makeshift hospital room. (I have to have a few books at the ready to keep me company.)

I don’t sleep much when I’m out there (the couch is short and my legs get awkwardly propped up or tucked under), but I don’t mind. I can hear Dad breathing a few feet away, and that’s all that matters.

Breathing is good.

He looks relatively okay, too. I’m not sure what to think about this. Is it a good sign, that he has some color in his cheeks and that his smile is back? Or does it hide the decay underneath that will eventually kill him? I have no choice but to let it be a happy thing, however, because the other option is to sit and worry and never enjoy a single moment with him.

Sometimes, when Tom is about to go to work, and the girls come home from school, and I come home from work early enough, Mama brings home In-N-Out for us. We lay out a blanket over my mom’s favorite rug (so we don’t destroy it with Special Sauce) and pile on like we used to when we were little. Dad used to make steak dinners on Friday nights, and we would eat our dinner over an indoor picnic. Afterward, we would fold up the blanket and curl up on the couch for a movie, during which my mom would trim my dad’s hair. (Thing You Should Know About Me #2183: I’m super nostalgic about these sorts of things.) (Oh, wait…you probably knew that already.)

It’s during one of these fast food dinners, two weeks after we brought Papa home, that he makes an announcement. I’m just sitting there, enjoying the silence, passing the ketchup to Millie for her fries, when Papa says very loudly, “Bee’s going to take a floral design class. Right, Bee?”

I close my eyes, briefly. I’m less than amused, and I make sure he sees the scowl on my face. “Papa…”

Everyone is as surprised as I gathered they’d be, which is why I never said anything. I haven’t thought about it once since I found out TCP was funding the chemo.

“I’m not doing it,” I say, firmly.

Astrid rolls her eyes. “Drama Queen.”

“Shh, Ass-trid.” I glance at my mom, who’s turned her questioning gaze on me. “I, um, don’t need to do it. It’s expensive.”

“Honey, we can cover it,” Mom says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, I really don’t want to.”

“Why not, Beef?” Tom takes a huge bite out of his burger and says, with his mouth full, “You’re really good at it.”

Millicent makes a sound of disgust. “Tom.” Then she adds, “Bee, I really, really want you to do it. Come on, please?”

“It’s too expensive, and that’s that.” I shrug. “I don’t know…it might be good to keep in mind for next fall, though. Besides, I’d rather be here more, spending time with you guys.”

“The class is next semester, Bee,” my dad says, like I’m crazy for wanting to hang out at home. “A long way away from now.”

“So?” I shrug.

“Your attitude sucks,” Papa replies, good-naturedly. “But speaking of spending time with us, when is Levi coming over for dinner again?”

“Um.” I choke on a fry.

“Soon, I hope,” he says, looking at me closely.

Very closely.

I clear my throat. “Maybe soon?” I say, because I’m a coward.

Papa raises an eyebrow. “Well, he’s been nice to stop by this week. He said last week he was so caught up in TCP work that he couldn’t make it over. Poor kid. Looked terrible.”

“He stopped by?” It takes a lot of work to keep my voice from sounding shrill.

“A couple days ago, and again today. Didn’t he tell you?”

I quickly stuff my mouth with fries to avoid Papa’s gaze, which tells me he definitely knows something happened. “No, he didn’t. Must’ve forgot.”

Tom wipes his hands on a napkin (I’m pretty sure that was my napkin) and says, “Well, if Bee doesn’t want the spotlight, I’m going to steal it.”

Yes, please do. I smile. “As always.”

He scowls at me, but his smile is quick to replace it. “I got promoted—I’m a shift leader with a raise. My boss says I’ll be manager soon if I keep this up.”

Everyone raises their hands to high-five him, raining praises and good-jobs and excellents. He waits until we calm down before adding, “I’m also going to take classes again next year, maybe transfer to a four-year university if I decide what I want to do. Who knows? Maybe things will go even further at work and I’ll never look back.”

I clap Tom on the back and fake a smile. “I’m really proud of you.”

He beams. “Shut up, stupid.”

Mom shushes him. “That’s rude. You know the rules—now you have to say ten nice things to Bee.”

“Mo-om,” Tom groans. “How about five?”

My mother considers. “Okay. But make them count.”

Tom grunts, counting on his fingers as I wait with a smug expression on my face. “Your hair is long, you have glasses that fit your face right, you sometimes dress cute, your perfume is appealing, and you have a nice boyfriend.”

I gasp incredulously at this, trying to pretend like I didn’t hear that last one. Like it doesn’t cut deep.

Mama sighs, raises an eyebrow, and nods in Tom’s direction. “Bee, you can smack him.”

I lightly punch his shoulder.

“Harder,” my dad puts in.

I hit him again, this time with my palm, feeling the satisfaction that only comes from smacking an annoying older brother. He yelps in pain, which causes my sisters to burst into giggles. I sit back on my heels and smile even though I don’t feel like it. My chest hurts. Tom mentioned my boyfriend—the one who hasn’t called me, who’s been stopping by my house when I’m not around, who, my Papa says, looks terribly stressed. I’m the only one who knows it’s not because of TCP.

Ex-boyfriend, I correct myself after a moment of denial.

Ignoring the catastrophe that is my heart, I eat the last of my fries, bring my knees up to my chest as I sit back, and listen to my family’s laughter.