Page 2 of Ebbing Tides (The Lighthouse Duology #2)

He took the money with disbelief in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe his luck. He looked the two twenties over in his hands. “Wow, thanks, Mr. Tailor!”

“No problem,” I said, tucking my wallet back into my pocket. “But don’t forget; the next time it snows—”

“Yep! I’ll come right over,” he said, nodding eagerly, still clutching the money in his gloved hands.

“Awesome. Thanks for the car.” I held up the truck before tucking it into my jacket pocket. “Now get inside and warm up. It’s freezing out here.”

“You’re still gonna take Lido for a walk though?” he asked as I gave the dog’s leash a gentle tug.

“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “But it’s okay. I don’t mind the cold.”

God knew I’d been freezing for long enough.

***

I parked outside the house I had grown up in and looked out the window with the same dread I’d felt every single day for the past nine months. Lido whined from the passenger seat, and I wrapped my arm around his neck to ruffle the fur at his chest.

“I know, buddy,” I grumbled. “But we gotta do what we gotta do, right?”

Without another moment of hesitation, I opened the door to the truck and climbed out. Lido followed, and with his head down, he came with me up the walkway to the porch steps. I took out the key Dad had given me, opened the door, and stepped into a space that hadn’t changed at all in over a decade.

I walked past the stairs, not bothering to look at them, not wanting to linger on the memories of the life lived and the death witnessed, and walked in a direction I’d never been permitted until I received that fateful call nine months ago.

It was a short hallway with only two doors—one leading to a bathroom, the other my father’s office. I pushed open the door to the bathroom, quickly washed my hands, then left to open the office door that had once been elusive and sacred, but now …

I flipped on the light switch to illuminate the dark, dark room.

It was a man’s office. Rich, deep hardwood floor, matching paneled walls.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to complement the surrounding perimeter.

A black leather nailhead-trimmed sofa was shoved up against the wall beside the door, along with the matching office chair and huge antique oak desk, to make room for the hospital bed and medical equipment.

A withered frame was curled up in the center of that bed. The moment the light was turned on, he groaned, rolling his head against the pillow and lifting one shaking hand to cover his eyes.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, trying to inject a bit of cheerfulness into my voice.

The doctors and nurses had said it might help with his terrible mood, to which I’d replied, “You obviously don’t know my father.”

But still, I tried.

I always, always tried.

“How are you feeling today?” I asked him as I rounded the bed to make sure his pillows were still fluffed the way he liked.

“Will you stop asking me that fucking question?” he answered in a weak tone but just as bitter and angry. “Every fucking day, you ask me that question. How the hell do you think I’m feeling?”

I shrugged, walking around to the table hovering over his bed to collect the used, bloodied tissues discarded over the top. “You don’t want me to care about you?”

“Why the fuck would you care about me?”

Lido hopped onto the couch beside the door and groaned as he slumped down, resting his chin on his paws.

I sighed along with him. “Because you’re my father.”

Dad laughed sardonically, only to cough and cough until he struggled to catch his breath. I grabbed a tissue and held it to his mouth as he hacked and smoothed a hand over his wispy white hair.

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay. Try to breathe, all right? Try—”

“Oh, will you shut the hell up?” he choked out between coughs. He snatched the tissue from my hand and wiped the bloody mucus that had dribbled from his mouth. “And what the fuck does it matter what I am to you?”

“Matters to me,” I mumbled, taking the tissue from his hand and throwing it into the garbage can with the rest of them.

But that was my problem, wasn’t it? I had always cared.

I had cared too much. When most people would’ve cut the asshole out, I craved his affection.

When most people would’ve walked away, I wondered what I could do better to make him love me.

He mattered to me for reasons I couldn’t even begin to understand myself, and that was exactly why I’d agreed to take care of him when he was given a terminal cancer diagnosis.

Of course, that was also when his doctors had given him less than three months to live … and that was nine months ago.

But the reality was, they could’ve told me he had six years left to live, and I still would’ve agreed to care for him. If only for the possibility that maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe he might care about me in return.

“Why the hell did you bring that dog in this house again?” Dad asked.

“He’s here every day, Dad.”

“Since when?”

“Since we started sleeping here nine months ago,” I reminded him, opening the drawer full of my father’s countless medications. Concoctions meant to combat cough, breathlessness, pain, nausea, anxiety, insomnia, and whatever other ailments might befall him. “You’re due for your next round of meds.”

“Fucking bullshit does nothing.”

I looked down at the rows of prescription bottles, boxes, and bags. “Hey, if you wanna stop taking them, that’s up to you. I’m—”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Get rid of me faster.”

I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

It was the same song and dance I’d engaged in every single day for the better part of a year.

It was exhausting, demoralizing, and one of the most difficult, stressful things I’d ever endured in all of my forty-eight years of life—and I’d been to war and buried my family, for fuck’s sake!

Grace and Lucy offered on numerous occasions to take over, to take the responsibility off my shoulders, and every time, I declined. They had a far better relationship with our father than I ever did—that was for sure—and it was unlikely he would torment them the way he did me.

But they also had more to deal with in their lives.

Kids, husbands, demanding careers as lawyers—both of them.

In comparison, my plate was a lot emptier.

It was me and Lido and a sleepy desk job in the dead of night.

It wasn’t the most taxing life, and so I had the freedom to sleep on the lumpy old couch and devote my time to my father.

And apart from work and the odd day of stopping at home to watch the sunset and nap in my bed, that was exactly what I’d done … for nine whole months.

Almost an entire year.

Sure, we had the hospice nurses who came in and out throughout the day, and most evenings, while I was at work, one of my sisters would stop in for a bit, but mostly, it was Dad and me.

Not once had the sick old bastard thanked me for any of it, but I did it anyway. And if I could do it again, I still would. Because that was the kind of man I was, even if I knew he wasn’t.

“Are you hungry?” I asked him, ignoring his commentary.

This was the moment when he typically set aside his anger and spoke to me like a human being.

I looked forward to breakfast and dinner because of that alone.

At lunchtime, I had a nurse come by to care for him for a few hours while I slept, and most of the time, he didn’t have much interest in midday meals.

But lunch and dinner … that was my time to shine, and sometimes, I even think he liked me for it.

He considered the question, as he always did, then bobbed his head in a soft nod. “I think I could eat something.”

“Any requests?”

“Your mother used to make a good grilled cheese,” he said.

“I kinda remember that.” Before she had gone completely catatonic.

“I could eat a grilled cheese. And tomato soup.”

“You got it.” I turned and patted my thigh. “Come on, Lido.”

I made his grilled cheese, thinking of times I’d cooked dinner before Laura came home from work. They were always quick meals, nothing to brag about, but she and the girls always seemed to enjoy it.

The girls …

They would be eighteen now, and what a wild thought that was when they were perpetually eight years old in my mind.

Just two little girls, playing with Barbies and baby dolls.

It was hard to imagine them grown up now, driving and going on dates.

I thought about them—I thought about them a lot—but I never reached out.

Never called. Never dropped a letter in the mailbox.

Never even looked them up on social media, out of fear that their father would do as he’d sworn ten years ago and murder me.

It’d be worth it , I thought, flipping the sandwich onto a plate. Just to tell them I’m sorry.

I imagined they hated me, and they had every right to. They probably didn’t want to hear from me. But … I thought about it still, and I did it often.

The microwave beeped, and I pulled out the bowl of tomato soup. I brought Dad’s dinner back to him, adjusted his bed with the attached remote, and set him up to eat. He picked up half the sandwich and sniffed it.

“I didn’t poison you; don’t worry,” I said, tucking a napkin into the shirt he wore and noticing the stains on his chest. “Want me to change your shirt before I leave for work later?”

“You can do it tomorrow,” he grumbled, then took a bite. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. “This is good.”

“Wow. Bet that hurt.”

“What?”

“Complimenting me,” I said, and when he met my eye, I lifted the side of my mouth in a half smile.

He turned away. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

I huffed a humorless laugh. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

As he ate, I put together his cocktail of medications in a little paper cup, then put it on the tray beside his plate.

When he was finished, I cleaned up as he took his pills, changed the adult diaper he wore and the sheets he lay on, and filled his cup with ice water.

All the while, he scowled, never allowing his eyes to pass mine again.

It was par for the course, and I empathized with it.

How humiliating it must be to have your child see you in such a weak and vulnerable state—especially the child you spent most of your life despising.

After the routine was done and it was almost time to leave, I grabbed my coat from the couch beside Lido and began to put it on as I said, “Okay, Lucy should be stopping by to check up on you in a couple of hours. I have to get to work—”

“Why do you even bother with that bullshit?”

I snorted. “Because it’s my job and I have to make money.”

“Money.” He snickered. “You call that money? What do you make? Sixty, seventy grand?”

I ignored the jab at my chosen occupation and patted my thigh. “Let’s go, boy. See you in the morning, Dad.”

I didn’t bother to listen to his reply as I left the room, closed the door—as per his request—and hurried to get out of the house. Only to unburden myself from my father.

Only to breathe again.