LOGAN
Dadâs wearing monogrammed silk pajamas on his deathbed, his Rolex visible through the transparent IV tubes.
I feel like thatâs the punchline in a jokebook somewhere.
I donât know who heâs trying to impress with his attire. The hospice people arrive at his McMansion every day; they know heâs loaded. Mom knows. Yvette knows. I know.
He wonât let his friends visit. Dad canât even fucking see the watch, but he insists.
~Insisted~. Past tense. He hasnât been lucid yet today. The sun set an hour ago.
I should leave, get Rae back home, but I canât bring myself to move. Iâve turned into Mom, who hasnât left her recliner in three days.
Iâm eating, at least. She hasnât touched any of the meals Yvette has brought up.
A soft groan hums over the beeping and whirring machines. I rip my eyes from the patch of the floor Iâve been studying for hours. ~Did Dad~â¦
âLove my sons.â
Each word is clear as day. Dadâs lips are parted, moving slightly. I spring from the chair and hover over him, my ear to his mouth, but all I hear is slow, labored breathing.
~No. Iâm imagining~ ~it~. This has to be some sort of fucked-up coping mechanism, my brain convincing me I heard the three words I always wanted but was never given.
Mom is still sleeping. She would have woken if Dad uttered a single word.
Yeah, Iâm hallucinating. I need to get out of here.
Rae follows silently, only speaking to say goodbye to Yvette and thank me for holding the door. In the car, as she rubs her hands together, trying to warm up, her eyes overflow with tears.
Iâm not a crier. Call it toxic masculinity, call it the product of a tough upbringing, call it what you want. I donât cry. I havenât cried since Zach.
I remember pounding my fists on the floor, shoulders heaving, sobbing until I sounded like a wounded animal.
Nothing will ever compare to that, but right now, suddenly, my cheeks feel damp. Tentatively, I lift a finger to the skin beneath my eyes and brush away the remnants of a few rogue tears.
âHe loves you,â Rae whispers.
I jerk my head up instinctively, curiosity beating out the need to keep my tears hidden. âDid youâ¦â I swallow. âYou heard him?â
She nods.
My lips are twitching, but I force a smile. âGood. Guess Iâm not going crazy.â
âOh, no.â Rae shakes her head, a sad but sly grin on her lips. âYouâre not the crazy one in this relationship, mister, but if you were, Iâd take care of you. Iâve got twenty-three years of experience dealing with crazy.â
***
As far as we know, âLove my sonsâ are Dadâs last words. Heâs gone four days after they leave his lips.
Gone. Lifeless. Dad, who commands attention in every room he walks into, is lifeless.
Mom weeps on his bed. She throws herself across him when the monitor stops beeping.
One hand cups his face. The other is twisted into her husbandâs shirt, clinging to him. Her tears stain the maroon fabric of his pajamas a deep burgundy.
It doesnât matter. He canât feel them.
I leave. Thereâs no point in staying. I was in here for Dad. Dad isnât in this room anymore, not really.
Rae is curled up on the couch, holding hands with Yvette, who dissolves into sobs when she sees me. Rae stifles a whimper into a pillow. I donât have to say anything.
They know that my presence means Dadâs is extinguished.
Yvette pulls me into a suffocating hug and kisses me on the cheek. I settle beside Rae, and she rests her head on my shoulder, the way she did at the park when Dad told me the news.
For hours, she remains there, sniffling softly and nuzzling into my neck. She only moves when Yvette speaks.
âOh, Lorraine.â
Mom descended the stairs so quietly I didnât hear a thing. Rae squeezes my arm when I shudder at her appearance.
Not at her swollen, bloodshot eyes. Not at the near-transparent skin on her cheeks or the frailty with which she moves. No. Itâs the shirt she has on.
Dadâs polo. The green one he liked to wear golfing.
Slowly, Mom shuffles toward us, helped along by Yvette, who rests her on the couch beside me. Rae tries to inch over to give us more room, but I hold her hand steady.
Sheâs the one I need, not Mom. Mom doesnât comfort.
Is this really all thatâs left of us? Half our family is gone.
âIt doesnât feel real yet, does it?â I murmur.
She doesnât look at me when she replies, âNever has.â