THATCHER
I can't get the image of Emma out of my head. She stood naked and gleaming in the sunlight in her kitchen. And even though her face was contorted in shock at me seeing her naked, I still have this memory of her bathed in light, glowing. She looked ephemeral. Supernatural. And so fucking perfect. Her body is everything, all curves and soft lines. Creamy skin. And Christ. That hair. Her red hair. Knowing I can't haul her into her bedroom and ravage her body, I settle for the next best thing to unleash all this energy. I drive as fast as I can and rush into my studio to work some glass.
I dip into the furnace and gather a ball of molten glass and sit to shape it at my work bench. Pulling long fragments, twisting, sprinkling on color, I work in a frenzy. I know hours pass. I sense the light shifting in the studio as the sun sets, but I don't want to stop even to turn on the overhead lights. I work by the light of the furnace as I sculpt the tendrils of glass just so, angle the reds and golden threads until I'm satisfied. This work is my lust, my anger, my fear. This is Emma, contorted with illness and rising in triumph. This piece is everything, passion and depth. So much color.
I haven't felt that inspired in months. I exhale and sit back, staring at what I've made. This is light and fury and fire. I shape a base so it will rest, stable, and then slide it into the kiln to slowly come down to room temperature, so the fragile material won't shatter.
Only then do I pause and breathe. I just sit in stillness. I feel so fucking calm after I've worked out all these ideas into the glass. It's a meditation for me, the way I find clarity. When I'm done, I can see what I need to do. I need to face my father, and find out just what the fuck he means when he says he is dying. I lock up the studio and drive back to the hospital.
I think the staff is starting to recognize me. I get a smile from the receptionist when I ask for Ted Stag's room. As she prints out my visitor badge, I realize that a week ago, I'd be slipping her my number, making plans to go fuck her in a utility closet before getting on with my day. Huh, I think. I don't even feel like doing that.
It's surprising--this lack of an urge to block out the world with some meaningless sex.
I take the elevator up to the floor where my father is staying. Apparently they usually release him when he sobers up, but this time they say they've found some things and need to keep an eye on him in-patient. He's asleep, his yellow-tinged skin practically glowing in the hospital lights. I wander over to the nurse's station to ask for the Cliff Notes version of what's wrong with him, and someone tells me they'll page the doctor.
While I'm waiting, my brother Ty texts me a few times, but I don't even feel like I can answer his questions about our cabin trip. I'm worried I'll give something away, somehow reveal that I'm standing a foot away from the man who abandoned us.
"Mr. Stag? Dr. Stone." An older man approaches me with his hand extended. "I must say, it's a pleasure to finally see a loved one here with Ted."
I try not to snort. "He said he's dying," I say, shaking the doctor's hand.
Stone exhales. "These conversations are never easy. Can I get you something? Coffee?"
I shake my head. "Just lay it on me. What's wrong with him? Specifically?"
I spend the next half hour learning about advanced liver failure, and how the only cure is liver transplant. They can't put my father on an organ list because he's still actively abusing alcohol. Dr. Stone is stern when he meets my eye and says, "if your father can remain sober for six months, we could not only assess whether his liver restores function on its own in the absence of alcohol, but it can prove to us that he is serious about staying sober if he were to receive a transplant operation."
There's really nothing I can think to say in response to that, so I just sit and stare at the bed until eventually Dr. Stone pats my shoulder and excuses himself. He leaves me with his card and some info about a rehab program they recommend. He also hands me a pamphlet about living organ donation.