"Live."
Wade
The meeting was one of the hardest of my life.
I sat next to my sister, back rigid, listening to the options, the choices we had. Care plans and insurance and needing nurses every day. Transporting him home, readying the room for his hospital bed, the equipment, the space he would need as his body betrayed him.
There were plans to be made, a million things to do when all I wanted was to sit with him in that room and beg him to stay with us as long as he could.
Sophie cried silently through the conversation, and I took the lead gladly, finding comfort at least in that. In being a doer. In being a fixer. But frustration twisted through me at the futility of it all. There was plenty to do. There was nothing to fix.
So I put on the mask I wore, the mask I'd perfected over seven years, the one that buffered me against war, against Elliot, and now against this.
But as the meeting wore on, I considered the fact that Elliot was sitting in the hospital room just down the hall. She was older — it seemed impossible. The vision of her when I'd last seen her was a part of me, a part of my mind and soul. I could still hear her say goodbye, still feel her slipping away from me.
Although she was older, she was otherwise unchanged. Smaller, maybe. Quieter. But she was still so beautiful, her eyes so dark. Bottomless. Infinite.
It wasn't any easier to see her than I imagined it would be. Given the circumstance, it was exponentially harder, wider, taller than I could have believed. I didn't want her here, couldn't deal with her in that moment when I needed all my strength for my father. And with that realization, I found the deep burn of resentment that sometimes accompanied my thoughts of her. But it wasn't resentment for her; I resented myself.
We walked out of the office and toward the elevator, my feelings a nebulous cloud, ever shifting, charged and crackling.
Sophie sniffled, and I pressed the button to call the elevator, thinking about what waited for me downstairs. My father. Elliot.
My chest ached as we stepped onto the elevator. "Sophie, why …" I stopped myself, drawing a heavy breath. It wasn't the time. I could handle this, handle Elliot.
"Why what?"
I clenched my teeth, flexing my jaw. "Never mind."
Her brow furrowed. "No, Wade. Please, tell me."
"Don't worry about it, okay?" My voice was more gruff than I meant for it to be, and I cleared my throat.
She squared off, turning her body to mine. "Tell me what you were going to say," she insisted.
I faced her, trying not to accuse, but I knew my eyes were hard, and I could feel the stiffness of my body, my heart. "Why did you bring her? You know …" I paused, unable to find the right words. "Just … why now? Why right now?"
"Because I asked her to be here." She frowned, her face tight. "It's been seven years."
I ran a hand through my hair. "You know damn well we haven't spoken since then. And to see her now …" I swallowed hard. "I just don't want her here, not yet. I need time."
Sophie fumed. "She's a part of our family, and she's been here all the years you haven't."
I angled away from her, the sting burning deeper than she could have known. "Not fair, Soph. Not fucking fair."
The doors opened, and we stepped off, legs moving fast with our hurt.
"What's not fair is you denying me the right to have her here. What's not fair is you denying her the right to see Dad." She grabbed my arm, pulling me to a stop. "Wade, I know it hurts, and I'm sorry. But I need her. Please tell me you can find a way to be okay with it, because I don't know if I can get through this without her." Her voice cracked, and tears filled her eyes.
I stood there in front of my sister, who asked me to do the impossible, and I couldn't say no, and not just because I didn't want to hurt Elliot, but because Dad wouldn't have wanted me to either. He loved her, and having her there was the right thing, even though I hated the position I found myself in. I hated her, and for a reason I could never utter: I still loved her. I would love her forever. But there was no way back to what we were.
"Fine," I said curtly. "But please don't ask me for anything more than tolerance."
She nodded, and we turned, heading for his hospital room.
Elliot sat next to his bed, reading him Whitman, her voice strong and sure, words leaving her lips with the intimacy of them being her own. A flash from a thousand nights before overcame me — Elliot in my arms, reading me Byron with all the passion and love in her heart.
I pushed the thought away, holding it back with the truth of our circumstance.
She turned to us, closing the book and slipping it back into her bag. Dad opened his eyes and tried to smile as Elliot moved out of the way again.
She was so quiet, disappearing like smoke, just as she had before.
I moved to the edge of the bed. "Hey, Dad."
"Go okay?" he said through the side of his mouth.
"Yeah, it went okay. The social worker is going to meet with all of us tomorrow with the plans so we can make a decision."
"Just want …" he paused, struggling, "go home."
I swallowed. "I know. It's just details, like how many nurses they'll need, what days they'll come. That sort of thing."
He nodded.
I watched him for a moment, not wanting to leave. "Dad, Sadie's at home waiting for us. She … she doesn't know."