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“Hi,” I say, moving toward her. War leans against the kitchen island, head tilted curiously. “I’m Melody. Uh, is anyone else home?”
The woman’s eyes brighten. “You’reMelody? Of course you are, look at you, sweetie. Oh, I should’ve recognized you, but I wasn’t expecting anyone. Your father didn’t tell me you were coming.”
I exchange a look with War. He told Dad we were on the way, or at least he says he did. “Uh, right, well, I’m here. Is anyone else home?”
“No, honey, not right now. They’re all in town and won’t be back for a few hours.”
In town? Nobody wouldevergo into town on a workday when my dad was in charge back when I lived here.
“Right, okay, that’s fine. Maybe I can wait here?” I feel strange, asking for permission to sit in the kitchen I grew up in from a woman I don’t know. There are too many memories in this room and I try not to let them invade me.
The woman smiles kindly. “Your daddy’s awake and doing all right if you want to come for a visit? He’d love it.”
My guts twist. I wanted to speak with Uncle Lovett or Uncle Dudley first, get a feel for how things are around here, maybe get a little insight into Dad’s state of mind, but if they’re not here—I don’t know how I can turn down following this woman back to my father, but the idea is terrifying, facing him without any preparation.
I look to War, not sure why. His face is hard and he nods slowly, eyes narrowed like he knows what I’m thinking, and panic’s sucking at my chest and making my heart go wild. I don’t want to do this—coming home was a huge mistake—I can turn and run away now and pretend like this never happened—
But I’m here for a reason. I don’t have to let the ghosts haunts me anymore. I’m not owned by my past, and I’m not defined by the things that happened to me back then. And I need this money, for Bomber, and for myself.
“Go ahead,” War says quietly. “I’ll wait here.”
I nod slowly to the nurse. “Okay, let’s go talk to him.”
“Wonderful.” She opens the refrigerator and gets a water bottle out. “Come on this way. My name’s Lorraine, by the way, I’ve been your daddy’s nurse for a year now.”
“How’s he doing?” I ask as we walk through the halls toward my father’s wing. He has his own section with several private rooms, bathrooms, living rooms, and a small kitchen. “I know he’s sick, but how sick?”
“I’m a hospice nurse,” she says and that tells me everything. “But he’s got good days and bad days, just like everyone. You happened to show up on a good day, which is a real blessing.” Lorraine flashes me a kind smile. “Just to warn you, he’s in a hospital bed, there’s beeping equipment, and he’s got an IV line in right now for some medicine, but that’s not always there. Some people get a little squeamish around that stuff, but don’t let it put you off, just act like you normally do when you visit your father.” She pauses when we reach the door. “Do you need a second to gather yourself?”
I take a deep breath and shake my head. Lorraine’s nice and she’s clearly done this before, but there’s no amount of waiting around that will make this any easier. “Let’s go in.”
My father looks like he shrank to half his size. His face is gaunt, his hair gray, the wrinkles around his deep blue eyes deepened into massive furrows. His room is exactly like I remember it, except for the hospital equipment: oil paintings of the Texas landscape, pictures of the family, including several of my mother, and more than a few of me when I was little. There’s a TV playing a Western, but Dad’s eyes track me as I walk toward him, feeling strange and small and like a child all over again.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, and Lorraine comes over, giving him the water and helping him sit up.
“I found this one in the kitchen looking for everyone else,” Lorraine says, giving him a knowing smile. “But you know how that is.”
“Thank you,” Dad says to his nurse. “Could you give us a moment? I haven’t seen my daughter in quite some time.”
“Sure, honey, sure.” Lorraine gets him settled. “You need anything at all, you just yell.” She gives me another kind smile and departs.
I remain standing alone at the end of Dad’s bed.
A thousand emotions tear into me with their claws. Memories, good and bad, some of the worst and best of my life. Dad sitting on a stool taking his boots off after a long day of work, giving me a tired smile as I do a dance I practiced for him all afternoon. Dad grunting as he changed the channel with me by his side, talking about his favorite movies, hugging me tight against his massive, warm flank. Dad staring down his nose and calling me a liar. And now Dad is lying in that bed, looking like a skeleton, pale and sickly, slightly jaundiced, exhausted and aching. Dying slowly, by inches, when I never imagined he could be anything but his massive, vital self.
“So,” Dad says, and his voice is still that low prairie rumble, drawing out a single word. “He really did it. He brought you home.”
“Didn’t think he could?”
“I had my doubts. You’re a Leader, after all. Stubborn to a fault.”
I smile bitterly at that. If he only understood how much that stings, he might’ve not said it. “Why’d you send War after me, Dad?” I want to ask a dozen other, more important questions, but that’s what comes out first.
He chuckles and that laugh nearly kills me. I loved that laugh. I workedhardfor that laugh. Whenever my father smiled and gave me that laugh, it was like everything was worth it, all the hard work, all the tough lessons, all the struggle and the judgment. My father could make me feel seen, or make me feel invisible, or make me feel any number of extremes more easily than anyone else in my life ever could before and since.
Now I feel tiny and humbled and scared and sad for my larger-than-life father.
“Didn’t trust anyone else,” he says, and he coughs and sips the water Lorraine gave him. “Not that I trust Warren. Your cousin’s been very involved in everything and I needed someone she didn’t know.”
