Chapter Eight
Vic
The fluorescent lights in the ER hallway buzzed like dying insects.Vic sat hunched forwards on a hard plastic chair, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the scuffed toes of his boots.The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee clung to everything, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingered in his nose even though he hadn’t been the one bleeding.
Grams sat beside him, her frail, age-spotted hand resting on his shoulder.Her thumb pressed firmly into the tight muscle there, working it with the same quiet determination she’d used to knead bread dough or rub his back when he was a feverish kid.
Behind his closed eyes, Vic kept seeing the same image on repeat of his father’s face in the trauma room.Slack.Gray.Mouth slightly open like he’d been about to crack one last joke.The monitors had gone flat and merciless, the doctors moving with that terrible, practiced efficiency that meant there was nothing left to fight for.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Vic whispered.
The words felt stupid the moment they left his mouth, but he couldn’t stop them.“He was supposed to be in Memphis doing that session work.That’s what he told me two days ago.Said he’d finally caught a break, that this one might actually pay real money.He wasn’t supposed to be in some dive bar in fucking Murfreesboro getting into it with bouncers.”
Grams’ thumb kept its steady rhythm against his shoulder.She didn’t try to shush him or tell him it would be okay.She never had.That was one of the things he loved most about her.
“I know, son,” she said eventually, her voice low and steady despite the exhaustion carved into every line of her face.“He never was where he was supposed to be.”
Vic let out a harsh breath that was almost a laugh but hurt too much to be one.“Yeah.Story of his life.”
He could still hear Rosie’s voice in his head from that last phone call—loud, cocky, and completely full of that rock-star charm that never quite died no matter how many times life knocked it down.
“Gonna be big this time, kid.You wait and see.Your old man’s finally gonna make you proud.”
Vic had rolled his eyes at the time.He’d heard it all before.But some small, stupid part of him had still hoped.
Now that hope was lying on a gurney behind a closed door down the hall, covered by a thin white sheet.
The doctor had let them in for a few minutes.Vic had stood there staring at his father’s still face, the gray skin, the way his hands—hands that had once shredded guitar solos—lay limp at his sides.He looked smaller than Vic remembered.Just a man who had chased the high until it finally caught him.
“I keep thinking about the last time I really talked to him,” Vic muttered.“He called me last month asking for money for gas so he could make it to that gig.I told him no.Said he needed to grow the fuck up and stop treating me like his personal ATM.”His voice cracked.“That’s the last real conversation we had.Me telling him to grow up.”
Grams squeezed his shoulder harder.“Victor James Montrose Sr.never did learn that lesson.Not from me, not from your mother, and sure as hell not from you.That wasn’t your burden to carry, baby.”
Vic finally lifted his head and looked at her.She looked so small under the harsh hospital lights—smaller than she had even a few months ago.But her eyes were clear and fierce, the same eyes that had stared down bill collectors and truant officers and a son who couldn’t stay sober for more than six weeks at a time.
“I just wanted him to be better,” Vic said, the words scraping raw out of his throat.“Not for me.For himself.Just once.”
Grams pulled him sideways into a hug, and he went willingly, pressing his face into her shoulder like he was twelve years old again.She smelled like lavender soap and home.
“I know you did,” she whispered against his hair.“We all did.But some people...they burn too bright and too fast, and there’s nothing in the world that can slow them down.Your daddy was one of those.”
Vic closed his eyes tight, breathing in the familiar scent of her.
For the first time since she’d called him to the hospital four hours ago, the crushing weight in his chest eased just enough for him to draw a full breath.
His father was gone.
And no matter how many times Vic replayed that last conversation in his head, he couldn’t change it.
He could only decide what he was going to do with the life he still had.
***
