At Margot’s hesitation, I immediately worry I’ve crossed some invisible line that’s been drawn at hand-holding. Which, after the things I did to her in the sauna, should feel ridiculous but somehow doesn’t. It’s an intimacy I’m intentionally unfamiliar with. But then her hand is in mine, and I exhale as she slots her slender fingers between my much larger ones. Her chest rises and falls, and I know we’re feeling the same thing—that facing this won’t be so bad if we’re together. She looks up from our intertwined hands to give me a brave smile. “Let’s go.”
When I knock on my father’s door, I half-expect her to let go of me, but her thumb strokes mine, and my heart does an embarrassing sort of pirouette. Before I can read too much into it, the door begins to open. I brace myself for whatever catastropheawaits me, my mind running split-second dry runs of every lifesaving medical procedure I’ve ever learned. But Jo’s face appears, and she’s…smiling?
“Finally!” she booms, her eyes going round when she sees I’m not alone. “And Margot too! Oh, this is justwonderful! Come on in, you two, come on in.” Jo backs into the room, her long flannel nightgown swinging merrily as she holds the door for us. I look around, still expecting to have a coronary embolism at the sight of my father lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Instead, he’s sitting up in bed, looking alert and comfortable.
“Jo radioed,” I say uncertainly as Scout gets up and pads over from his bed to greet us. “Everything okay, Dad?”
He looks pointedly at Margot’s and my interlocked hands. “Never better,” he says, laughing. “Took you long enough, son.”
Heat creeps into my face, but I don’t loosen my hold on Margot’s hand. “It’s late. Is there a reason you called?” I ask, irritation quickly replacing fear now that it’s clear he’s okay.
At my tone, Jo comes to sit beside my dad, sliding her fingers into his unresponsive left hand. “Show them, Trap,” she urges gently.
My eyes zero in on Dad’s hand, and I grip Margot’s tighter. I’m convinced I’m imagining it when his middle finger twitches, then shakily curls over the back of Jo’s hand. His other fingers follow until he’s holding her hand in a weak but determined clasp.
“Oh my God, Trapper!” Margot exclaims. She gives my hand a final squeeze before slipping hers out of my grasp and hurrying over to my dad and Jo. She drops down to cover both their hands with hers, radiating happiness for my family, and a band that’s been around my chest snaps. In a single moment, all my fear over her intentionally hurting the lodge with a bad review vanishes.How did I ever think she was remotely like Charlotte?Beneath all her protective layers, she cares. She’s all the warmth and light I’ve needed in this cold, dark place, though I can hardly bear to witnessit. I’m rooted to the spot while a nameless disappointment stretches bitter branches through me.
The feeling doesn’t obey logic. I know this is a major milestone for my father. One that we’ve worked countless grueling hours for in our daily PT sessions. I should be thrilled. Over the fucking moon. But knowing how I should feel doesn’t stop the only thought pulsing through me:it’s not enough. Not enough to give me hope that he’ll ever walk again, and not enough to give me hope that I’ll ever be able to leave his side. The guilt for even thinking of leaving while the one parent I still have is suffering is unbearable. But the truth is, since Margot showed up, I’ve been hoping for a miracle. A way out. But this victory—the smallness of it—feels like a chain binding me tighter to the future I’ve committed to. A future that doesn’t include California, my lab, my research funding, and most importantly, Margot. I wouldn’t have admitted it yesterday—or hell, a few hours ago—but after she let me hold all her trust in my hands tonight, there’s no denying the way I want her goes far beyond “happy for right now,” even if that’s all we’ll ever have.
“Think this calls for some wine,” Dad announces, interrupting my thoughts. “Jo? Will you grab a bottle?”
“I’ll get it,” Margot volunteers with a smile that lights up the whole room. My chest contracts so hard, I wonder if I should use my dad’s blood pressure cuff on myself. After the door closes behind her, the silence lasts approximately point-three seconds before my dad and Jo start talking, completely oblivious to what’s playing out inside me.
“What’d I tell you!” Dad snaps his good fingers and points at me. “He’s always had a thing for blondes.”
“Quick, before she comes back,” Jo says, flapping an impatient hand at me as Scout (clearly done with the late-night human drama) heads back to his bed. “Tell us how it happened! Is it serious? Of course it’s serious. But how will you make it work after sheleaves? Would she ever consider staying for good?” Jo gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh, Lord, what if I scared her off? The way I was yapping at you while you wereintimate,” she stage-whispers with air quotes, in case I somehow missed her meaning.
Christ. “You two really need a new hobby.”
“Of course she’s not staying here, Josephine,” my dad cuts in, ignoring me. “Margot’s got a whole life back in Los Angeles. What would Savannah do without her?”
At my father’s perfectly sensible words, the disappointment ballooning through me abruptly doubles in size. I know she’s going to leave. It’s not exactly news, but hearing it spoken so plainly after the night we’ve had together feels like a kick to the chest.
My misery must be written all over my face because my father says, “There’s no need to look so glum.” I lift my eyes from my boots to see him smiling softly. “The answer’s easy. It’s time for you to go back to California.”
The room is silent until a husk of a laugh escapes me. “Go back? You know that’s not happening, Dad.”
“And why not?” Jo interjects with a sudden brightness in her dark eyes. “Your father held my hand tonight, Forrest. All your hard work is obviously paying off. He’s had a breakthrough!”
I resist shaking my head, not wanting to minimize his accomplishment. “It’s an incredible milestone to reach,” I agree, silently dusting off my old bedside-manner training. “But we also know this is a two-steps-forward-one-step-back situation. It’s very likely you’ll experience some backsliding, Dad, and you still have a long road of PT ahead of you. We’re also not out of the woods for a post-traumatic neurological event. We’ve been lucky so far, but if—”
My dad holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Don’t even try it,Forrest. You and I both know if I had a stroke, there’d be nothing you could do for me here but make a fuss.”
Hurt and indignation swell inside me right alongside the paralyzing uselessness I feel at his words. He’s right, of course, but there’s zero part of me that wants to admit it, even to myself. “Make a fuss?” I repeat, while Joe looks nervously between us. “That’s what you think I’m doing here?”
My dad makes an impatient sound. “No. What I think you’re doing here is letting a misplaced sense of guilt and responsibility dictate your life.” He pauses and his gaze on me softens. “What happened back then wasn’t your fault, or your responsibility, and neither is this.”
At my dad’s oblique reference to my mother, my heart seizes up. Up until now, he’s gone along with me, letting me use my medical knowledge as a mask for the real reason I’m here. But it’s gone now, and all I can say is the simple truth. “I need to be here.” I look at him beseechingly. “I… I’m happy to be here.”
My father purses his lips, staring at me. “But you can’t stay here forever, Forrest. Your whole life’s in California.”
I shake my head, unable to bring myself to say what I think we’ve both known for some time: that with every passing day of almost nonexistent gains, the independence we’d hoped to reestablish for him has become less and less likely—right along with my willingness to return to my old life. I’m only thankful I never told him about the grant I was awarded. He doesn’t need another reason to feel like he’s holding me back.
Dad looks down at his hand, still awkwardly wrapped around Jo’s, and I see a tear slip quickly into his mustache. It’s the moment when I realize he’s been holding out for a miracle too.
“Your mother never would’ve agreed to this,” he says, his voice thick. “Never.”
Regret nearly suffocates me, quickly followed by irrational anger.I want to tell him Mom doesn’t get a say because she’s dead. And instead of spending the last year of her life by her side like I should have, I was thousands of miles away while her cancer spread.
