Preston
Fuck, I love my dad.
He's a fighter. Two weeks ago, when he got admitted into the hospice, he wasn't doing that great.
In fact, he looked like the living dead.
But then a funny thing happened. He started doing better.
He was staying awake longer. Began holding conversations without losing the thread.
Asked for the TV remote. He even started eating small amounts without being coaxed into every bite, which made Mom happier than I've seen her in a while.
There's a reason why I'm not calling this a miracle. I'm under no illusion he's going to jump out of bed and walk out of here. He's doing better, but he's not well. I'm doing my best to accept that more and more and just be thankful for every precious second I get to spend with him.
"Want anything else?" I ask when he finishes his yogurt.
He shoots me a look. "Nice try. But I'm good, thanks."
"Worth a shot," I say, smiling as I fumble around and clear the tray from his table.
The room layout was easy enough to memorize, and Dad asked for several lamps to be placed around the place to save me having to endure the awful, bright overhead lighting.
Mom's gone home to shower, rest, and repack. It's the only reason she ever leaves Dad. It's really sweet, and I get her not wanting to be anywhere else. But she needs to take some time out for herself, and besides, it gives me a chance to have some one-on-one time with Dad.
When I sit back down next to him, I bring the remote and his iPad with me.
Daytime TV is as bad as I remember it from the couple of times I was sick and got to stay home from school, but he's been getting into the History Channel lately, so he might want to watch that.
And of course, his trusty iPad is basically a support animal at this stage.
He smiles his thanks as I set them on his bedside table but barely glances at them before saying, "Can we talk for a minute, son?"
"Of course." I grab the chair and lift it up before moving it closer to the bed.
I accidentally scraped it along the hard floor before, and it sent my dull headache into overdrive.
My temples are still throbbing, but at this point, even the meds don't have much effect, so I just do the best I can with it. "What's up?"
His hand is by the side of his body. I place mine into his open palm and wait for him to speak. I can tell something is on his mind, but the words don't seem to be coming easy.
Or fast.
At least a minute of silence passes before he says, "I never thought I'd be in this position, about to have this talk with you."
My stomach tightens as I get a sinking feeling I know where this is going. I think we're about to have the father-son I'm about to die talk.
"I want you to promise me something, Pres."
I swallow. "Anything, Dad. Anything."
He gives a slow nod. "I know your life is going to change very drastically soon. But you're a strong, capable young man. Yes, it will be hard, but I have every certainty that you will pull through it, and you will be okay."
I feel tears building in my eyes, and I silently pray they hold off for as long as possible. I don't share my father's faith in me, but I'm not about to correct a dying man.
"Preston." He slides his tongue along his dry lips. "I want you to promise me you'll look after your mother."
"Of course I will, Dad. You don't have to worry about that at all."
"I knew you'd say that." His eyes flutter to a close, his dry lips stretched in a small smile.
"Here. Have some water."
He opens his eyes and sucks in through the straw I press to his lips. "Thank you. It's nice to have at least one son who cares."
And with that, he drifts off.
I sink back into the chair, release the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, massage the sides of my forehead, and try to think. Of course I'm going to do everything I can to look after Mom. That goes without saying. Even when I’m blind, I'm going to make sure she's okay.
Which means…I'm going to need money more than ever.
Which means…
I dig out my phone and record a quick voice message to Andre, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb Dad.
"I'm ready to do it."