“No. Too much to do. I’m alright.” Tight wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. His breath comes out in choppy spurts. He’s lying about how good he feels.
“You need anything? Water? Something to eat?”
He doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore, so I’m really just grasping for anything to do for him.
Malcolm presses his lips together—his version of a smile—and shakes his head. “Unless I can convince you to be part of BIG again.”
I huff. He’s said a version of the same thing often enough that BIG has become a sort of running joke between us. But I don’t sayno, like I have every other time he’s brought it up. I pull an armchair from the other side of his desk, then swivel his chair so we’re practically sitting knee to knee when I settle into my chair.
I sit tall, cross my legs and clasp my hands in my lap, attempting to play the role of a businesswoman.
“I've told you my terms, Dad. Investments have to align with my values. Projects can’t hurt the environment. Small businesses can’t be put out of business. People have to be paid a living wage.” There’s more, but I stop there.
“That’s not a way to run a business, Francesca. Profit is the purpose.” His eyes are steel. If they were the only part of his body visible, you’d never know he was dying.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’m an actor, not a businesswoman.”
“An actor,” he scoffs. “Guess it’s my own fault for making that dream possible.”
“It’s absolutely your fault, Dad. And I’m grateful you made it happen.” I reach for his hand and hold his bone-thin fingers in mine.
I wouldn’t say things are good between us, but they’re better. We still don’t see eye to eye. I still bristle against his attempts to pressure me into doing what he wants. He’s still uncomfortable with any kind of real affection, but we have moments like this that we never had before. I won’t say livinghere with him was something I wanted to do or that I ever thought I would do, but I don’t regret it. I chose it.
“Did you come to tell me you got that part you wanted?” He slides his hand from mine and swivels his chair back to his desk and bank of computers.
“Haven’t heard yet.”
He knows I’ve auditioned for Allison Fisher. For the first time, he stayed out of it. He didn’t use his influence to get me the part. He didn’t offer to produce the movie just so I could be in it. Which, honestly, is kind of scary, because if I don’t get the part, what does it say about my skills as an actor?
But if I do get it, I will have earned it.
“I reckon you’ll hear soon.” He clears his throat. “She’d be an idiot not to cast you.”
A smile slips out. “Cheers, Dad.”
He coughs, and I rush to pour him a glass of water. The cough grows deeper, and he shakes too hard to take the glass from me. I put my hand on his back and try to hold him steady enough to raise the glass to his lips. He’s finally able to take a sip, but by the time the coughing subsides, he’s too weak to sit upright.
“Probably better take that rest.” His voice is raw and hoarse.
He grasps my hand and I lift him up by his elbow, then gently guide him to his bed. I help him under the blankets, tucking them up around his chest. His hands are ice cold.
“You want the heat on?” I ask.
With his eyes closed, he nods, so I flip the switch on his electric blanket.
“How’s your pain?”
He holds up eight fingers, which is the level he’ll take meds. I crush the pills into a cup of orange juice, then help him drink it.
Within a few minutes, his breathing is more regular, but his eyelids are growing heavy. I wish I could wait until after he rests to talk to him about Wild Coast and Sanctuary, but he might be worse when he wakes. I'm not sure how many more times he’ll be able to climb out of this bed by himself. This could be my last chance to ask him what I need to.
“Dad…can we talk about Sanctuary for minute?” I sit on the edge of his bed.
“What’s that?”
A week ago, I wouldn’t have had to remind him. A couple of days ago I wouldn’t have had to.
“That’s the inn at Serenity Cove. The one the old hotel sold to instead of us.”
