Perfectly Imperfect

24

A tear rolled down my cheek as I made my way to the van. I didn't know what to say to my sisters, so I just told them that Luke was in the hospital and that as soon as I knew something else, I'd fill them in.

Luke was a dear friend to the family, we all loved him. He was always amiable and caring. I'd always felt an inexplicable awe at him. He'd taken care of Chris since he was very little, and even though Chris was sort of a rebel in high school, he'd always aced his classes and was responsible in a way his father felt content.

Luke never cared much about the street fighting or the motorcycle because he knew he could trust his son. Chris was a good boy, underneath that bad-ass image he loved to flaunt. They had a great relationship built on trust, respect and love.

For the first time since I came back from California, I drove through the speed limit. I wanted to see him. I wanted to hug him, to let him know that he wasn't alone. Forty minutes later, I parked in front of Boston's Memorial Hospital.

What could you say in this case? I'm sorry sounded lame and shallow; even though I was sorry that Luke was sick, that Chris was hurting.

Then again, the cold way he'd gazed at me before leaving from New York, made me feel on edge. I had no idea what to say or what to do. Nothing was going to make him better. Nothing. I just hoped that the fact that I was here, would mean something.

With a heavy heart, I made my way through the hallways, after checking in with the nurses. Most of them knew me as Sue's daughter, so they were really nice and let me through. When I reached his room, a shaky breath left my lips. Mustering all the courage I had, I knocked on the door. There was no sound from the other side. Warily, I opened it and peeked my head through the crack. "Luke?" I added in a low tone, "Chris?"

Someone coughed inside. Biting my lip, I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. Sun light seeped through the window in front of me. A small blue couch was placed right next to it, but it was empty. There was another chair placed next to the bedtime table. A couple of water bottles were on top with a half-filled glass.

My eyes moved slowly to the bed, dreading the moment I laid eyes on Luke. Chris was nowhere in sight, but his father's eyes softened when they locked with mine. His face seemed aged, his skin had a yellowish tint and his eyes were sunken. He forced a small smile and gestured me to get closer to him. My chest tightened as I swallowed hard, trying not to tear up. "Hi," I murmured, leaning closer to kiss him on the forehead. His skin was cold and dry. My heart broke at his state.

How could Chris keep this to himself? I don't think I could be able to, pretending that nothing was happening, if my father was sick as Luke. He'd masked his ache and kept on, day by day, trying to act like everything was fine. His pain runs deep; I knew that much.

Chris had put up this bravado, this mask, so nobody knew how hard it was to go through this. He'd closed on everyone, including himself.

Luke's left hand was bony as he patted the side of the bed. I blinked the tears away, stepping closer to him. I pressed my lips together trying to contain the sob that wanted to burst out as I reached him.

"I'm sorry," his voice was barely a whisper, but I heard him.

Why was he sorry for? For keeping us all out of the loop? For trying to fight something that was completely out of his hands by himself? For putting so much pressure on his son?

A tear rolled down my cheek as I tilted my head. "I'm sorry, too." My voice broke and I choked down a sob. I meant it. I was sorry to see him going through this, for trying to keep it altogether, when it was obvious it was out of his hands.