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I nodded through my tears. "And it's important to me that you know that, because I don't want you to think that this is all some ruse. Or that I'm just here because of his father's will-"
"Robert's will?" Confusion rippled across her patrician features. "Why would you just be here because of my husband's will?"
She didn't know? I looked at her, then Marie, then Branson. Hope leaped in my chest because I knew that Xander thought his mother was just ambivalent. That no one was on his side. The smile and indifference was long gone when she stormed forward, her eyes locked on her daughter.
"What have you done, Marie?"
Marie looked genuinely rattled for a second then sniffed and shrugged her shoulders. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Mrs. Wade looked like she wanted to strangle her daughter, but instead, she tightened her grip on her pearls, took a deep breath. She pivoted to Branson first. "Please get Maury Barrowman on the phone immediately." A curl slipped from her pinned bob when she whipped back to me but like a woman that was used to recovering and coming back stronger than ever, she quickly tucked it back in place and held out her hand to me. The smile she wore wasn't over the top and oblivious, the Vaseline smile of a pageant contestant. There was sadness in her smile with shades of concern. She did care about her son.
"I’m still murky on the details, but I think I have it figured out. I'll get a much clearer picture when you and I go have a chat with Xander and Robert."
I eyed her hand skeptically. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I'm not trying to start trouble, I just wanted to let you know that I care deeply for your son. Whether he's worth a million-"
"Billion," Marie corrected unhelpfully.
"I don't care about the money." I ignored Marie and put all my love, all I had in me behind my words. "I care about Xander."
"Then let's make this right." Light danced into Mrs. Wade’s eyes. "I'm glad that my son found you."
She cupped my hand between hers when I accepted it, ready to take the stairs and come face to face with whatever Marie or Xander's father threw our way, and come out on the other side.
Chapter Eight: Xander
My father had taken up residence in the east wing. The minute I turned down the corridor, I got hit with the smell of disinfectant and sickness. In another life, with another kind of upbringing, I would have had memories of raising all kinds of hell on the waxed hardwood floors. Mom's voice ringing out to tell me that I better be working on my homework if I'm flying the scooter down the hallway, Dad sneaking in after lights out, catching me with a flashlight beneath the blanket. Sneaking girls in after my parents nodded off. Keggers when they were out of town. Instead, the house felt like a museum and the closer I got to the room that had become my father's prison, the more I wanted to turn back. I knew how this all would end. I'd tell him fuck his addendum, he'd just stare at me with that dismissive glare that always cut like a knife, and thank me for visiting.
I paused in front of two oversized oak doors, the feeling of being small and like I was about to enter some royal court not lost on me. The room used to be my father's home office, but when his health deteriorated it became his 'recovery suite'. My mother's words. I don't think she'd used the words 'death' or 'dying' since he got sick. I wasn't sure if it was her usual burying her head in the sand or if some part of her loved him and couldn't accept the diagnosis. Ultimately, it didn't matter. My father was dying. Whether she ignored it or mourned it, it wouldn't stop the clock from running out.
I gripped the door knob, but I didn't turn it. The walk up had been a breeze. I had my speech ready. My game face was on. Yet now that I was here and I knew he was on the other side of the door, I was dragging my feet. Maybe all that nostalgia about what we had and what could have been bothered me more than I realized. As much as I pretended that all the ways he disappointed me had made me into the man I was, it was hitting me that my father had been and always would be a stranger.
But you don't have to be. He thinks he knows you. He thinks that you'll just lie down and take it.
It was high time my father met me.
I opened the door, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the blinding light. There was no massive oak desk. No walls lined with bookshelves. The ancient globe that he used to have propped in the corner was gone. Everything that this room was, his space, his throne room, had been removed. There was only the bed, hospital grade, covered in crisp white linens, a flurry of medical equipment, and an oversized armchair in front of the window that led to the balcony.
Still in awe of everything that was missing, I almost expected him to jump out of some closet and yell ‘Boo!’ Tell me that he was really okay. But I knew my father wasn't one for the games that children play. Mind games were his specialty.
Despite the fact that his bed was empty, I knew my father was in the room. I felt the heaviness of his presence. It didn't matter that the French doors were wide open and the sun was streaming into the room. A chill raced over me, but I focused on the window. I focused on the warmth. That whole 'great minds think alike' saying must have been based in some level of truth because when I stopped analyzing the roller coaster of emotions I was on and used common sense, I realized I knew exactly where he was at. I saw the IV bag on one side of the chair, the oxygen tank propped on the other. I almost called out an apology, sure I had the wrong room. The man in the chair was completely bald. The neck that held that person's head up was too thin to be my father's. Just down the hall there was photographic proof that this was a stranger. Robert Wade a head full of dark hair, just like mine; a neck as thick and fearsome as a tree trunk. Some invisible force pulled me forward, the reason I was there long forgotten.
Emotion seized every part of me when I stepped into the light and saw just how far gone he was. He was literally nothing but skin and bones, all the things that made him the larger than life character that seemed untouchable had been taken from him. The striking features that he'd given me we're now gaunt and forgotten. When he fixed his green eyes on me, it didn't have its usual effect; my hackles didn't rise, ready for a fight. I didn't see disappointment. I saw relief.
He licked his lips, his eyes fluttering slowly, painfully, like that mere act of blinking was too much to bear.
"Xander."
Tears I refused to acknowledge as such filled my eyes. I didn't know what to say, so I went with the most ridiculous thing I could have said. "H-How are you?"
One side of his mouth lifted. A smirk? My father didn't smirk!
"I'm fantastic."
The sarcasm? Definitely my father.
"Sorry," I offered, taking a pensive step toward the balcony. The doors were wide open; sunshine, birds chirping, flowers blooming pouring into the room, but I felt as gray as my father's skin. I never thought I'd say the words that were rattling around in my throat, but being there with him, pride and resentment seemed to dwindle close to nothing. "I'm sorry I haven't been to visit."
He brought his bony fingers to the nasal cannula that protruded from his nostrils, adjusting it with a wince. I leaned forward to help, to do something, but he grunted that he was fine and I retreated back to my spot in the sun and the darkness.
