Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Seven

She lets me know, without even speaking. When she tells me that there's a chance of recovery, but that we should prepare ourselves, I'm sure that means no. Normally, I feel like this would be the moment I cry. The moment I realize that my father is at the last stage of his life, possibly his final days. My eyes are dry. I don't know if it's because I've been preparing for this, or if it's because my body knows that letting that kind of emotion in right now would destroy me, but I can only nod.

She rubs my arm, warmly. "The doctor came so fast that he bailed on an appointment to get here. He said he'll be back in a few hours, and he'll stay with Norman throughout the night to ensure he gets the best possible care."

I nod again, goosebumps creeping up my arms, my legs, even my throat. I feel them everywhere.

"He's sleeping, but you're welcome to go in."

I'm not sure why Giovanni lets me go in alone. I turn, and he's outside with the nurse still. I can only imagine he's giving me space, space to process it all. I wrap my arms around my body as I walk up to Norman's bed, finding him attached to a drip. The sight of him from a few hours ago to now is drastic and difficult to fathom. It's hard to even look at him, this man who's been in my life for so long.

Who's become to mean something far greater than I'd expected. He's always been a mentor, a leader, a father figure. He and I were best friends once. The gaping age difference didn't matter. Before I had any clue that he was my father, before the entire mess with Giovanni, we'd travel for work. We'd go out to eat. We'd joke and speak as if we were friends, rather than co-workers—or what's more—family.

I remember when he first showed up into my life, when he saved me from whatever fate I was headed toward when my father was imprisoned, my mother killed, he would invite me to every function he held, every holiday. I always thought it was because he felt pity that I'd spend them alone.

I always said no.

Now, I realize why he spent so much time trying to make me into something, why he spent so much time caring.

He was making up for lost time. And now that time is gone.

For months, it's been escaping through a small puncture, blowing out and all around us in slow, weak gusts, but the months have passed, and that puncture has widened and the air is coming out so fast that nothing can slow it down. No care, no desperation, no prayers can stop this.

He's sick. He's in pain. I don't care what she says. Even in sleep, this looks like it hurts like hell. I have no idea what to do. I sit down on the edge of the bed, and grab his hand, resting my other over his large fingers. The nurse has applied wet rags to his head and throat, but when I check them, they've already warmed from the heat of the fever.

I peel them off of him, and work on wetting new ones, ones that will cool him down. His limbs randomly contract and move, even in sleep. I'm not sure why. I'm gentle as I lay the damp towel to his head, his neck, under his arms. I'm just looking at him, and I feel his discomfort.

While I'm throwing the used rags into the laundry, I pick up the Vaseline as I leave the bathroom. I apply it carefully to his lips, which have dried and cracked. I'm pulling back when Giovanni's hand strokes my hair, letting me know he's here. I hadn't heard him come in.

Neither of us say a word, not wishing to wake him.

...

It's nearly two hours later, when Norman's lashes flutter open, his eyes displaying a fleeting moment of incoherence, of disorientation before they land on me. I sit up in the seat I've pulled up next to the bed. Despite the hour, Giovanni's in the kitchen, making a meal that I'm sure Norman won't, and probably can't eat. But, it's making him feel useful, so I've left him to it.