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He doesn’t like for me to spoon-feed him though, so I don’t.
I don’t wipe the dribble off his mouth, either.
He claims the eggs are delicious, though they’re certainly not. I’ve never had a reason to learn to cook, not when my father is an ambassador to the King of Dwellen on behalf of the human citizens and his salary allows him to employ a dozen servants.
But sometimes he talks about the days before he rose to a place of prominence, back when it was just Mama and him, and how much he loved the way she cooked eggs.
Mama’s not here anymore, and Papa’s not long for this side of the sun, either.
There’s so little he enjoys anymore, and I suppose I thought the eggs… Well, I thought it would be like having her back. That it would be like having all three of us together again. Not that I remember those days. My mother passed before my mind had known to grasp onto the memories of her.
Once Father’s done, and there are egg bits and dribbles of milk all over his bed robes, I steal a bite of the scrambled eggs off his plate.
I instantly gag. They’re burnt and bland and disgusting.
“You didn’t have to eat these,” I say, my stomach sinking. I wanted to give my father a last little bit of enjoyment, especially in a life where he gets so very little of it.
My mind races, and I wonder then if this will be his last meal.
I wonder if every meal will be his last meal, but somehow, I think it’ll be worse if he dies having eaten disgusting burnt eggs.
“I’ll get Bruno to make you some more,” I say, quickly swiping the plate from off the tray I’ve perched carefully upon his knees.
My father reaches out and grabs my arm. The movement is gentle, but his hands are cursed with that ever-present tremble, and he accidentally shakes my arm. I drop the plate, and the remnants of what will probably be my father’s last meal go scattering across the floor.
“Leave it,” he says, when I go to pick up the mess. “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time. At least I’ll get to look at it a bit longer.”
He grins at me, his brown eyes wide and so very, very tired. I let out a laugh that sounds more like a wheeze, and I reach over and squeeze his hand.
“Just sit with me awhile?” he asks, so I do.
There wasa time when sitting with my father would have been a loud and boisterous occasion, a feast of stories about his days as a traveling ambassador, and I would gobble up every tale, no matter how many times over he’d told me the same story.
Now, I mostly just hold his hand while he sleeps and try to keep my sobs from getting too loud, lest they wake him.
It was okay for a while, sitting here with him in the quiet.
The only problem is that it’s not quiet any longer.
There’s a rattle in my father’s chest that crept up yesterday. It’s wet and gargled, and it has me wondering if there’s water sloshing around while he breathes.
I’m only twelve years old, and there’s plenty I don’t yet know about the world, but I’m certain that breathing isn’t supposed to sound like that.
It grows louder the longer he sleeps. So loud, it reminds me of a roar, and I wonder if I should wake him. Perhaps if I can get him to sit up straighter in bed—
My father vomits. It’s violent and quick, and it soaks the bed in blood and mucus and wet eggs.
“You vile, useless little creature,”my stepmother, Clarissa, hisses, even as I frantically try to wipe up the vomit with the hem of my skirt.
I guess I must have screamed for help. I don’t really remember.
The stench of my father’s illness climbs up my nostrils, settling into my mind, where I imagine it will remain. Permanently.
“You knew better than to give your father food. You heard what the physician said last week.”
A knot forms in my throat, stinging so badly I wonder if it might burst.
Ididhear what the physician said. That my father is too weak to eat safely. That he could easily choke on his food, even if we cut it up into little pieces, like I’d done with the eggs this morning.
