Chapter Thirty-Nine Everleigh
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Everleigh
There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t be here. I left a note for Will and made peace with my decision to leave.
“Can you tell me what room Thatcher Landry is in?” I ask the nurse at the desk while surveying the crowded dining room. Other than the clinking of dishes and the moan of a woman in a wheelchair a few feet to my right, it’s oddly quiet. Minimal chatter. No laughter. It’s a reality check.
“Room thirteen,” the nurse says with a weary smile. Everyone in this place looks exhausted. Maybe the day shift hasn’t arrived yet.
As I walk down the hall of soiled gray and tan carpet, breathing in the stench of death, I pull back my shoulders and tip up my chin. I’m a doctor visiting a patient. That’s it. There’s no need to make this about me.
I poke my head into the room through the partially closed door. There’s an empty bed on one side of the curtain and a man beside Thatcher’s bed on the other.
“Hi,” I say, trying not to startle him.
The middle-aged man with black-framed glasses and thinning brown-and-gray hair turns in the chair and glances back. He smiles while standing. “Hi.” He offers his hand. “Steven Gibbs. I’m Thatcher’s pastor.”
My gaze drifts to Thatcher’s open mouth and partially closed eyes. He’s gaunt and frail. “Everleigh,” I say, shaking the pastor’s hand. “Will’s friend.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thought Will and his mom would be back by now. I have somewhere I need to be in twenty minutes. So . . .”
I nod. “Of course. I’ll sit with him.”
“Thank you.” He steps aside and threads his arms into his overcoat.
I tightly fold my hands in front of me, smile perfectly in place as I wait for him to step toward the door.
“It was nice to meet you, Everleigh.”
I swallow hard and mumble, “You too.”
This is a mistake. I don’t know why I’m here.
I’ve never seen this man before now. He’s not my patient, and I’m not his family.
Yet, as he vibrates with a haunting death rattle, I ease into the chair and reach for his hand.
It’s cold and mottled. Guilt slams into my chest, shattering the barriers around my heart.
This feels inhumane. There’s no dignity in this kind of death.
Animals are treated better than humans at the end of their lives.
Will should be here.
Someone should have been with you.
I close my eyes, trying to shake the haunting voice in my head. This is Thatcher Landry. Will’s dad.
Will should be holding his father’s hand.
Who held your hand? Nobody.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my thoughts to stay on Thatcher.
Love begets pain. It’s unavoidable.
I avoided it. And now I feel it. And it’s too much.
Thatcher stops breathing, so I squeeze his hand and wait. This is so wrong. Where are Will and his mom? I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t.
After twenty seconds, Thatcher takes another breath. His bony chest rises beneath his Yellowstone T-shirt, pauses, then deflates.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The man before me blurs behind my tears.
“Someone should have been there,” I say. The words feel raw escaping the back of my throat. But I’m not talking to Thatcher Landry.
I did it, Daddy. I’m a doctor. Mom whistled and cheered so loudly that embarrassment filled my cheeks. All the other parents showed restraint. Not Mom. She was too proud. Maybe she was making up for your not being there.
Again, I squeeze the cold hand in mine, desperately wanting him (only not him) to forgive everyone who should have loved him.
He would have loved me. I just know it. With my other hand, I wipe the tears from my cheek.
A restrained sob chokes my next breath, and crushing emotions leak through the cracks of my existence.
You would tell me to shrug it off. Not waste time on regret. But I can’t let go until I acknowledge how tightly I’ve been holding on. If I let go, the loss is real. The hollowness in my chest is real. Your death is real.
My life with him passes before my eyes.
How tiny my hand felt in his.
The way he tried to restrain his smile every time I giggled.
The first time he let me fly my own kite.
The pride in his eyes when he knew I was smarter than him and everyone else.
The picture in my head is so clear, it feels real . . . but it wasn’t.
None of it was real.
“I’ve had so many thoughts.” I wipe more tears, my words barely a whisper.
“But you are by far the greatest thing I’ve ever imagined.
” I release his hand and cover my face, body racking with sobs as everything I built over a lifetime comes crashing down.
The weight of the rubble crushes my identity.
“So sorry to disturb you. I’m going to give him a bed bath, if that’s okay?” The nurse’s aide interrupts my thoughts. “Do you want to step out of the room?”
I quickly wipe my face while she’s still behind me, and I stare at Thatcher. Will should be here.
“No. I’ll stay,” I murmur.
The young woman waits until I gather enough of my senses to slide the chair away from the bed. She eyes me.
“I’m a doctor,” I say. A doctor with red, swollen eyes.
Her expression softens, and she nods. His breaths are numbered, and that number is small. But she cleans him, gives him a little dignity, even in death. There are not enough wings for all the angels who care for the dying.
She eyes me as I slowly stand and bend down to kiss his forehead. “Whatever comes next, I’m sure it’s amazing. Godspeed.”
As slowly and gently as possible, she rolls him onto his side. Saliva and mucus run down the side of his face. I watch his chest, and after a few seconds, I slide my fingers to his neck. The aide glances at me while removing his diaper.
“Keep going,” I say, despite detecting no pulse.
She continues, and I feel nothing against the pads of my fingers, but inside, I feel everything I’ve refused to feel since I learned the truth.
“When you’re done, call the nurse. Then call his family,” I whisper before I press my hand to my neck as if I can push my heart out of my throat and back down into my chest.