Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
CELESTE
My leg jumps on the spot, jostling me in the hard plastic seat. The anxiety-ridden bouncing earns me a filthy look from the older woman in the seat beside mine at Grafton General Hospital.
“Black?” A nurse walks out with a clipboard, looking around the room above our heads like they always do.
“Here!” I shoot off the seat like it’s made of hot coals. And she wastes no time leading me to the family room. Inside sits my father and who I presume is the doctor.
“Miss Black, how are you this morning?” the doctor asks, a shallow smile on his face. I glance at Dad and give him a soft smile.
He stares back, pushing up a polite nod of the head, as if a stranger just walked in with room service. Someone he’ll never see again but can’t bring himself to be impolite to.
I replay the doctor’s question in my mind. How are you?
Do you really want to know?
It’s only been two days since my father left with the paramedics, and the guilt is eating me alive.
I’ve barely slept. Every conversation I have with my sister and brother end the same way.
And there have been at least five of those with either of them, and a group video call that went sideways way too quick. They don’t want Dad in a home.
Nor do I, but . . .
Then there was the night I spent at Quin’s the first time. And I swear, now that I’ve had time to process everything, he was just trying to help by distracting me.
“I’m fine.” I sit on the chair, trying not to let my gaze stick to my father.
“Good, good. Let’s get started, shall we?” he asks Dad this time.
“Whatever you say, Doc.” Dad raises his hands in assent before resting them on his thighs.
“So we have had a chance to reassess the medications as well as observe.” The doctor nods as if questioning my understanding.
“Yes, and?” I reply.
“We have made some alterations, which should make life a little easier. Less incidents related to aggression and so on, at least. The medication does take a few days to take effect, and we always monitor each person carefully when starting a medication like this before we send them home. So Hank will be staying another few nights with us. Then, if all goes to plan, he can go home. We’ve already had this discussion with Hank, so, how does that sound to you? ”
“Um, good, I guess. What happens if it doesn’t work?”
“That isn’t usually a problem. But in the rare case that he doesn’t respond to the medication, we would try an alternative route.”
“Oh, okay.”
All of this is over my head.
His demeanor is . . .
He just keeps talking about Dad like he’s not even here.
“Great!” He slaps his thighs, and I jump in the seat.
“That’s it?” I ask, glancing to Dad, who’s staring out the small window instead of being part of a conversation that is about him.
“Yes, was there something else?” The doctor stands, adjusting his lab coat.
“No, I guess not.”
He waves a hand toward the door, and I rise from the chair. Dad sits rooted to the spot, oblivious to the doctor and me leaving.
“Sandy will be back for your—Hank shortly. I’ll see you in two days. Sandy will book you in for then.”
He disappears from the room, but I can’t bring myself to leave. To just leave Dad in this empty room by himself, staring at nothing.
So I stay planted in the doorway until Sandy shows.
“Oh, hey. You must be Celeste. It’s so lovely to meet you.”
“Hi, likewise. How’s he really doing?”
She gives me an empathetic smile. “Doctor Baron isn’t the warmest man on the planet, but he’s brilliant at his job.” She stops beside me, folding her arms. “He’s doing pretty good, all things considered.”
“That’s great,” I say, but the words almost lodge in my throat.
She turns and rubs my arm. “This is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do, hon. Watch a loved one you’ve known your entire life fade away from you in slow motion. It’s a real kick to the gut.”
I scrunch my face up, trying to stem the tears piling up behind my eyes from falling.
“You are doing an incredible job, sweetheart. This kind of thing is heart-wrenching.”
“You sound like you are talking from experience.”
“My mom. She passed two years back, but the last five were really hard.”
And just like that, nothing about our everyday feels as hard anymore. The thought of losing my father trumps any difficult moment.
“The best advice I can give you is to have someone, even if it’s just one person, that you can call day or night if you need support.
And—this last one is a must—do something for yourself every single day.
If your cup is empty, there is no way you’ll come out the other side of this, after giving everything day after day, and not need therapy if you don’t take care of you regularly. ”
“I—”
“Don’t forget those two, okay? They were literally my lifesavers.”
I huff a strained breath. Quin, my person to call day or night, is my lifesaver. Dramatic? Maybe. True? One hundred percent, in so many ways.
“You take care, okay? And I will make sure he’s well looked after.”
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“Of course. Now get out of here. Let me do my job.” She winks at me as she walks to my father. “Hello again, Hank. Ready for a cup of tea and a chat, hon?”
“Oh, there you are. I was wondering when someone was coming to take me to the train station. I’ve been waiting right here for hours, and I can’t be late. Tisha is waiting.”
“No, we can’t have that. Let’s grab that tea first, hey?”
“Yes. Yes, tea is good.”
I roll off the doorframe and wander back down the sterile hospital corridor. The small-town hospital is a general ward, housing a mix of patients. Each one with their own story, no doubt. And I can’t help but notice how incredibly drab the place is.
And I know just the woman to bring some color to these old walls.
For the first time in two decades, the double doors to my mother’s art studio under the big old oak in our backyard fall open. Dust and a light shower of snow falls from the doors as they creak around their hinges, letting light into the space that used to breathe with color and creativity.
The old wooden shed is drafty, the cold currents of air that wind through gaps in the boards playing with the dust and debris over the floor. Water damage has warped some spots of the shed’s walls, and the two long tables that still hold all her supplies have split veneer.
The windows on every side are boarded up. Most likely by my father not long after we lost Mom. Still, his efforts only served to keep us out, not the weather. The whole space needs fixing or, at the very minimum, a lot of love.
Her old stool, the one that swivels with the padded seat, sits by the table at the end, next to a dust-covered easel. I pad to where it stands, lifting the cloth draped over it.
A half-finished landscape stares back at me.
And I feel the weight in my chest, as I do with every memory of my mom. This time, it’s a little lighter. As if rediscovering her passion is a reunion of sorts for us. I run a fingertip over the oil-based paint, the texture uneven and abstract on my skin. “Hey, Mom,” I whisper.
I remember as a teenager begging Dad to let me into the studio, wanting to see her paintings one last time. Now, being in here, I feel the overwhelming urge to clean up the space and give it new life. A way to honor her, I guess.
Something for her.
But something for myself, a space to work on my art and refill my cup. And even if nothing comes from it, at least I have my own version of respite.
That is, if I can get this old relic of a studio fixed up . . .
Outside, I study the boards over the windows. Crowbar or—
“Celeste!”
I spin around to find Maisey plowing through the snow at me. She launches herself into my arms, and I hug her tight, glad for her company.
“Where’s your daddy, hon?”
She pushes back a little, her arms draped over my shoulders as her face breaks into a smile.
“He’s right here,” Quin says from behind, snow crunching as he crosses the yard at a steadier pace then his daughter did.
“Oh, hey. How was your job wrap-up?” I ask.
He tilts his head with a wry smile. “It was fine. How’s your dad?”
Maisey wriggles and I pop her down onto her feet. “He’s okay. A little better. Starting new meds, so hopefully that will help. They said he can come home in a few days, if the medication settles things.”
“That’s great . . .”
But his tone is far from relieved.
“This is his home, Quinton. Where he belongs.”
He rubs a hand behind his neck with a wince.
I set my shoulders, folding my arms over my chest. “You don’t—”
“CC . . .” He eliminates the distance between us. “You are the most selfless fucking woman on the planet, you know that? But Hank coming home might not be what turns out to be the best thing for him. Or you. Please just think about that, okay?”
“No.” I’m shaking my head. “That’s giving up on him, Quinton. I won’t do it.”
“No, it’s not. Not if he needs more care than you’re able to give. Not if it means you’re not safe.” His voice is laced with concern.
“I’m not talking to you about this. It’s for me and my brother and sister to decide.”
“I know that. But when they are thousands of miles away, expecting you to look after someone who needs more care than one person is capable of, who is going to look after you?”
The second the words leave his mouth, his face falls with something like shock. As if he just realized he overstepped.
“I’m sorry for—”
I hold a hand up. “Just drop it, please.”
Something tugs on my sweater, and I glance down to see Maisey’s face twisted with worry. “What do you mean nobody takes care of you, CC?”
Her brows pinch together even further, and my heart all but stalls out.
I bend down and give her a tight hug. “I’m just fine. Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. Besides, with you as my bestie, I’m the luckiest girl alive.”
She scoffs, breaking from the hug. “You mean woman—luckiest woman alive. That’s what Daddy calls you when he thinks I’m not listening. He said you’re the stunning woman that just had to move in next door muddling up his head. That’s what he said.”
My mouth falls open. The annoyance I was feeling toward Quin just seconds ago ebbs.
Quinton looses a groan as his hand rubs down his face. “You gotta repeat everything I say, Maise?”
She giggles and runs off to play in the snow.
“So, I take it having a woman living next door wasn’t on your vision board?” I ask with a chuckle.
“What the hell is a vision board?” he says.
“You know, where you put all your future dreams and plans?”
“Yeah, no. Don’t have one.”
“Maybe you should make one. Then you can stop talking to yourself.”
He slaps my ass and I squeal, bursting into a sprint to get away from him.
He bends down and scoops up snow, making a ball before tossing it in my general direction.
It hits the trunk of the old oak, and I fly behind the studio, coming to rest as I lean on its weathered boards.
The crunch of steel caps on snow lets me know he’s almost found me.
Offense is the best defense, so I gather up a snowball of my own and hold my hand up, ready to sling it at that handsome mug of his the second he finds me.
He steps closer and closer.
I ready my snowball . . .