Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Ipunch out another twenty pushups. It’s midmorning and my old man is still asleep down the hall.
He didn’t have a good night, bellowing me awake during the night complaining of a headache.
Darth Callahan recently found his voice again, and I’d take his rasp over his barks any day.
I’ve stopped looking for overnight nursing support so it’s all me, all the time.
I finally dropped into his bedside recliner and managed to catch a few winks once he conked out.
Now I’m up and doing a new exercise regimen since I’m losing my goddamned mind locked inside this hellish prison caring for a man I don’t care for at all.
Making his meals.
Helping him bathe.
Listening to him bitch.
Watching him decay.
Cleaning him up when he craps his pants.
I bang out another twenty, my breathing intensifying.
The man has yet to find humility and if this hasn’t brought it on, nothing will.
He’s lost his independence, livelihood, family, friends.
Every person who was close to him fled the minute the opportunity arose.
He’s alone in the world, save for me and my brothers, although they rarely show up or call either.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t be dropping by for chummy father-son visits if I weren’t forced into this indentured servitude.
I finish a set of one hundred pushups and move to squats. I don’t have any weights here, but this portable toolbox I found in the garage will suffice. It’s at least fifty pounds. Placing the box between my hands, I lower into a squat on a four count then explode up.
Sweat pools down my back by the time I’ve done thirty-five. Sixty-five to go. Fuck, I’m out of shape. It’s shocking to see how quickly my once-athletic body is deteriorating. Looking at my father provides a visceral reminder of how fast you can lose normal function.
I try and blank my mind. I don’t want to think about my current reality. And I sure as hell don’t want to think about the life I’m missing. Or my friends. Or Jax.
Then again, I’ll waste away here without some planning—small steps to help save my sanity.
I’ve got to find a resilient nursing aide or tell my brothers I’m out of here if they don’t pitch in some non-negotiable, can’t-flake-out, dedicated hours.
Both, really. I need some time to myself.
Even just long enough to go surfing, take a drive along the coast, breathe fresh fucking air.
My jaw clenches as I gasp for oxygen and reach seventy-five squats. My legs are on fire, screaming now with each rep, and it’s a miracle I haven’t dropped this unforgiving metal box. Determined to finish, I grunt through the final reps then stagger to the kitchen and down two glasses of water.
Sit-ups are next on the agenda. At the halfway point, I question my lunacy to do sets of one hundred. I swear this wouldn’t have been a problem six months ago.
A strange noise reaches my ears. I pause, but the house is silent except for the hum of appliances, the hourly gong of the grandfather clock, and my own strained breath. Maybe I’m hearing things, further proof I’m losing my mind.
After huffing out sixty-five sit-ups, the sound erupts again, and I leap to my feet. My legs wobble, protesting when I hustle toward my father’s bedroom.
I find him spewing gibberish, the covers askew, a pillow tipped upright on the floor.
Moving closer provides a clear view of his contorted face, and I can’t make out a word he says.
For a split second, I’m fixated on his vacant eyes as the stroke deprives his brain of oxygen.
Shaking myself into action, I grab the bed control and raise him to sitting then lunge for the phone and dial 911.