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I stand upright and cross my arms over my chest. Inside, I’m fuming, but this anger burns like pain. And fear.
What if I drop him off at some retirement home, and he passes away without me there?
What if they’re too busy with someone else and they don’t get him his medicine on time?
Why doesn’t he think about these things like I do?
“You won’t be able to smoke there, you know,” I say indignantly.
He waves me off. “Like they could stop me.”
“Come on,” I argue. “This is ridiculous. We don’t need to put you in a home. We’ll figure it out. Can’t you just give me a chance to figure it out?”
“I’m the one who fucked up, son. Why should you have to pay for it?” he says. When he talks a lot like this, he starts to get out of breath. I hate the way his skin turns gray, the way it is now.
“Dad, stop?—”
He puts up a hand, cutting off my words. As I kneel down in front of him, I feel a lump building in my throat. He looks so miserable.
I watch him struggle through nasty coughs for a while, and when he finally gets through it, he turns his glassy stare toward me. The look in his eyes is pleading, and I realize that I have to give in.
The nurses at the home could give him real care. They could have doctors on hand. They’d keep him comfortable, and it’s a lot more than I can offer at the moment.
“Son,” he rasps. “Please.”
With a heavy sigh, I nod. “Fine. I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you,” he mouths before resting his tired eyes and letting his head flop onto the pillow.
I return to my laptop when he’s asleep but can’t focus on the insurance page. I’m dreading that call tomorrow. I’m dreading the moment when I have to leave him at the home. I’m dreading the moment when I have to take Adam Goode’s stupid charity.
I just keep thinking that doing the right thing feels a lot like failure.
Five
Caleb
Ilove Mondays. The only people who can’t stand Mondays are people who toil away at jobs they hate. Lucky for me, I love my job. So I love Mondays. What I can’t stand is a tired Thursday or a lazy Friday, but on Mondays, the work is fulfilling. The email inbox is full, and there’s always something that requires my attention. And I love to feel needed.
There’s an open case file on my computer and a to-do list three miles long.
“Jules, any word from the medical examiner on that Hawkins case?” I call through the open door toward my secretary.
“Not yet,” she replies.
Just then, my cell phone rings and I glance down expectantly. I nearly pick it up in a rush of anticipation, but I pause when I notice my brother Adam’s name on the caller ID.
I stifle a groan as it rings again.
“Is that them?” Jules calls.
“No,” I mutter lowly. “Shut the door, would you, Jules?”
“Yep,” she says with a forced smirk as she pulls my office door closed between us.
Lately, it feels like one fire after another with my family—especially Adam. Ever since he discovered our father owned a sex club and was harboring some pretty dark secrets, it feels like our family’s drama has turned into a never-ending charade. It’s like the most dramatic season of television, and I’mthis closeto unsubscribing altogether.
The world-famous preacher wasn’t just exposed as a swindling cheater and a liar. No. On top of that, he was arrested for attacking Adam’s girlfriend, Sage, at a party last year. He put her in the hospital and practically shattered her trachea into pieces.
