Jack shot his father-in-law an appreciative look.
Bonnie fidgeted. “I’ve been thinking about that, actually.” She sighed. “Jack, I’m not trying to be heartless. I care about you. I don’t want to do any of this.” She paused. “But they just lost their mother.” Bonnie paused but didn’t continue.
It slowly dawned on Jack, what she was getting at.
“And to see me die too?”
Bonnie spread her hands. “But you’re right. You are their father. So I’ll leave it up to you. You tell me what to do, Jack, and I’ll do it. We can keep the kids here until... until you pass. They can attend your funeral, and then we can make the move. They can be with you until the end.” She looked at Fred, but he apparently had nothing to add.
Jack was surprised, then, when Fred said, “Anything you want, Jack, we’ll take care of it. Okay?”
Jack was silent for so long that Bonnie finally rose, clutched her sweater more tightly around her shoulders and said, “Fine, we can have an in-home nursing service come. Lizzie had some life insurance. We can use those funds to—”
“Take the kids.”
Fred and Bonnie looked at him. Jack said again, “Take the kids.”
“Are you sure?” asked Bonnie. She seemed to be sincere, but Jack knew this way would take a lot of the pressure off her.
He struggled to say, “As soon as you can.” It won’t be long, Jack thought. Not now. Not with Lizzie gone.
When she turned to leave, Bonnie froze. Mikki and Cory were standing there.
Bonnie said nervously, “I thought you were upstairs.”
“You don’t think this concerns us?” Mikki said bluntly.
“I think the adults need to make the decisions for what’s best for the children.”
“I’m not a child!” Mikki snapped.
Bonnie said, “Michelle, this is hard on all of us. We’re just trying to do the best we can under the circumstances.” She paused and added, “You lost your mother and I lost my daughter.” Bonnie’s voice cracked as she added, “None of this is easy, honey.”
Mikki gazed over at her father. He could feel the anger emanating from his oldest child. “You’re all losers!” yelled Mikki. She turned and rushed from the house, slamming the door behind her.
Bonnie shook her head and rubbed at her eyes before looking back at Jack. “This is a big sacrifice, for all of us.” She left the room, with Fred obediently trailing her. Cory just stood there staring at his dad.
“Cor,” he began. But his son turned and ran back upstairs.
A minute went by as Jack lay there, feeling like a turtle toppled on its back.
“Jack?”
When he looked over, Bonnie was standing a few feet from his bed holding something in her hand.
“The police dropped this off yesterday.” She held it up. It was the bag with Jack’s prescription meds. “They found it in the van. It was very unfortunate that Lizzie had to go back out that night. If she hadn’t, she’d obviously be alive today.”
“I told her not to go.”
“But she did. For you,” she replied.
The tears started to slide down her cheeks as she hurried from the room.
8
The room was small but clean. That wasn’t the problem. Jack had slept for months inside a shack with ten other infantrymen in the middle of a desert, where it was either too frigid or too hot. What Jack didn’t like here were the sounds. Folks during their last days of life did not make pleasant noises. Coughs, gagging, painful cries — but mostly it was the moaning. It never ceased. Then there was the squeak of the gurney wheels as the body of someone who had passed was taken away, the room freshened up for the next terminal case on the waiting list.
Most patients here were elderly. Yet Jack wasn’t the youngest person. There was a boy with final-stage leukemia two doors down. When Jack was being wheeled to his room he’d seen the little body in the bed: hairless head, vacant eyes, tubes all over him, barely breathing, just waiting for it to be over. His family would come every day; his mother was often here all the time. They would put on happy expressions when they were with him and then start bawling as soon as they left his side. Jack had witnessed this as they passed his doorway. All hunched over, weeping into their cupped hands. They were just waiting, too, for it to be over. And at the same time dreading when it would be.
Jack reached under his pillow and pulled out the calendar. January eleventh. He crossed it off. He had been here for five days. The average length of stay here, he’d heard, was three weeks. Without Lizzie, it would be three weeks too long.
He again reached under his pillow and pulled out the six now-crumpled envelopes with his letters to Lizzie inside them. He’d had Sammy bring them here from the house before it was listed for sale. He held them in his hands. The paper was splotched with his tears because he pulled them out and wept over them several times a day. What else did he have to do with his time? These letters now constituted a weight around his heart for a simple reason: Lizzie would never read them, never know what he was feeling in his last days of life. At the same time, it was the only thing allowing him to die with peace, with a measure of dignity. He put the letters away and just lay there, listening for the squeaks of the final gurney ride for another patient. They came with alarming regularity. Soon, he knew it would be his body on that stretcher.
He turned his head when the kids came in, followed by Fred. He was surprised to see Cecilia stroll in with her walker and portable oxygen tank resting in a burgundy sling. It was hard for her to go outside in the cold weather, yet she had done so for Jack. Jackie immediately climbed up on his dad’s lap, while Cory sat on the bed. Arms folded defiantly over her chest, Mikki stood by the door, as far away from everyone as she could be. She had on faded jeans with the knees torn out, heavy boots, a sleeveless unzipped parka, and a black long-sleeve T-shirt that said, REMEMBER DARFUR. Her hair was now orange. The color contrasted sharply with the dark circles under her eyes.
Cory had been saying something that only now Jack focused on. His son said, “But, Dad, you’ll be here and we’ll be way out there.”
“That’s the way Dad apparently wants it,” said Mikki sharply.
Jack turned to look at her. Father’s and daughter’s gazes locked until she finally looked away, with an eye roll tacked on.
Cory moved closer to him. “Look, I think the best thing we can do, Dad, is stay here with you. It just makes sense.”
Jackie, who was struggling with potty training, slid to the side of the bed and got down holding his privates.
“Gramps,” said Mikki, “Jackie has to go. And I’m not taking him this time.”
Fred saw what Jackie was doing and scuttled him off to the bathroom down the hall.
As soon as he was gone, Jack said, “You have to go, Cor.” He didn’t look at Mikki when he added, “You all do.”
“But we won’t be together, Dad,” said Cory. “We’ll never see each other.”
Cecilia, who’d been listening to all this, quietly spoke up. “I give you my word, Cory, that you will see your brother and sister early and often.”
Mikki came forward. Her sullen look was gone, replaced with a defiant one. “Okay, but what about Dad? He just stays here alone? That’s not fair.”
Jack said, “I’ll be with you. And your mom will too, in spirit,” he added a little lamely.
“Mom is dead. She can’t be with anyone,” snapped Mikki.
“Mikki,” said Cecilia reproachfully. “That’s not necessary.”
“Well, it’s true. We don’t need to be lied to. It’s bad enough that I have to go and live with them in Arizona.”