Page 27 of Ebbing Tides (The Lighthouse Duology #2)

He whined, closing his eyes and lying back against his pillow as I took the soiled blanket from off his withered frame.

I wiped away what I could of the blood and vomit, then stuffed the blanket into the hamper by the door.

A shadow was on the wall across from where I stood, and I peered out the open doorway to find Melanie standing there, her back to the wall.

She met my eyes with a tearful gaze, her hand clutched to her chest.

Had she been standing there the whole time?

There was a silent exchange of sighs and sorrowful glances before I turned back into the room to find another blanket in a pile on the old leather sofa. It was laid over Dad’s body, and he pulled it up to his chin, a look of unimaginable pain twisting his features.

“Can I give you morphine?” I asked, my voice strained beneath the weight of grief and helplessness.

“Why?” he whispered without opening his eyes.

“Because you’re in pain, Dad.”

“Doesn’t that … make you … happy?” He took gulping breaths between words.

I pulled in a tremulous breath and grabbed a disinfecting wipe from the canister beside the bed.

“Why would I be happy about that?”

He huffed a breathless chuckle. “Always … lying. Always … incapable … of telling … the truth.”

Laying a hand over my eyes, I pulled in a deep breath and sighed it out. God, I was so fucking tired of this stupid, stupid, stupid shit between us. This pathetic game. Wasn’t he? How could he not be?

Then I heard a whistling sound, and my hand fell quickly to my side, my eyes landing on him.

I was afraid the moment had finally come.

But he was still there, still breathing—albeit labored—and I looked around for the source of the sound.

It was then I realized his oxygen cannula had fallen off, the prongs no longer situated at his nostrils, where they were supposed to be.

“Shit,” I muttered, hurrying to position the tubing correctly. “Sorry about that.”

I rehooked the hollow plastic around his ears, then tightened it at his chin, securing it in place. “There we go,” I croaked.

He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, a little easier than before, and opened his eyes.

They met mine, and we held each other’s gaze longer than we’d had in a long time.

Maybe ever. And, oh, there was something there.

Something so close to affection that I wanted to reach out and grab it, pin it down and keep it forever. But …

No, maybe I was mistaken. Maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe it was—

“I’ll take the morphine,” he said in a raspy whisper.

I nodded. “Okay.”

Then I hurried to get the little pill. Dad opened his mouth, and I placed it under his tongue to dissolve.

Wordlessly, I lifted his cup for him to take a sip of water, and he pulled from the straw with trembling lips.

He dropped his head back against his pillow, weak and withered, and turned until he faced me.

“Do you think I don’t want to die?” he whispered, staring into my eyes. “Do you think I’m not ready?”

“I don’t know what to think about anything anymore, Dad,” I whispered back. “I’ve never known what to think when it comes to you.”

A croak escaped his throat, and one corner of his mouth lifted. He was laughing—trying to. Then, he hummed a short, contemplative sound. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. But you’re not the only one incapable of telling the truth.”

I cocked my head, holding his stare for as long as he’d allow. “What do you mean by that?”

He was silent for a minute. The morphine was fast acting, much faster than the cancer gnawing away at his body, and the recognition in his eyes was swiftly dying.

“Maybe this is my punishment,” he went on, his gaze softening. “To lie in this bed, dying for all of eternity, with you … my boy … oh, my boy … cleaning up my piss and shit.”

My tongue was tied as he sighed and closed his eyes, turning his head and breathing steadily.

His punishment? I thought, narrowing my eyes and turning to leave the room. Why the hell did I have to be drawn into that equation? What the hell am I being punished for?

I walked down the hall with my head hanging until I reached the bathroom sink, where I turned on the water, made sure it was hot, and soaped up my hands.

I could think of several reasons why my father would spend an eternity repenting for his multitude of sins.

The child abuse and neglect I’d suffered should be enough to earn a one-way ticket to Hell, if it were up to me.

And while I was no innocent in my own life, I wouldn’t consider myself a bad man either.

Isn’t that exactly what a bad man would say?

Laura didn’t think I was a bad man , I silently replied, scrubbing at my hands with vigor and aggression.

Yeah, but she’s dead. That’s still on me. Dad’s right. I didn’t push her down the stairs, but she was left alone, abandoned, for hours … because of me .

Stop. No. I’m not doing this again.

I forgot about her. I let her die, and the second I found someone to replace her, I forgot her again.

Stop .

I squeezed my eyes shut, scrubbing and scrubbing, the water scalding as it burned away the particles of Dad’s puke and poisonous blood. The blood in my veins. The blood that made me as bad as him.

I never forgot to leave flowers on her grave. I never ever forgot. But today, I forgot. It’s been ten years, and I forgot.

“Stop,” I whispered through gritted teeth. “Please stop.”

“Max?”

I snapped my eyes open with a gasp at the sound of Melanie’s voice. I turned to see her wide, sad eyes staring up at me, her hands gripping either side of the doorframe.

Without saying a word, I turned from her to look down at my hands, red from the scalding water. Ribbons of blood oozed from open wounds to swirl around and around and around, disappearing down the drain.

I winced, the pain hitting me all at once, yet I remained still, statuesque, as the burning hot water continued to pour over my hands.

“Oh God, Max,” Melanie whispered.

Then she did what I couldn’t.

She reached over to smack her hand against the faucet, and the hot water quickly turned to cold.

She squeezed into the bathroom behind me and grabbed a towel from the rack, turned off the water, and pulled my hands from the sink after a moment of letting them sit under the refreshing cold.

She wrapped the towel around my sore, stinging hands with tenderness and care, patting gingerly and looking up to my eyes.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” I muttered, my voice taut with pain, both emotional and physical.

“But if I don’t, who will?” she asked, her expression soft but serious.

A boulder clotted my throat instantly, the backs of my eyes pricking, nagging, with a wave of oncoming tears I did not want. I dropped my gaze to the floor, coaching my lungs to breathe, just breathe, but they stuttered against the mounting pain pressed to the center of my chest.

Melanie’s warm palm lifted to lie against my cheek. “Who takes care of you, Max?”

I don’t need anyone . The words dangled from the tip of my tongue, begging to be said. To put a stop to this stupid conversation, this moment, and move forward to better things. Her. Work. Sex. Anything away from him and this godforsaken place.

I don’t need anyone. I don’t need anyone.

God, I could say it in my brain, but the more I tried to utter the words aloud, the more that boulder swelled in my throat, choking me with the pain of knowing damn well that I needed more than I was ever willing to admit.

I don’t need anyone , I lied to myself one final time before the dam to my soul broke and the tears I’d been holding back leaked from my eyelids, squeezed tight.

“Come here,” Melanie whispered, releasing my hands and wrapping her arms around my neck.

Somewhere in the house, her kids were laughing, bringing joyful noise to this house of horrible things. Breathing life into a place that held too much death and despair. And I tried to grasp for it, to bring some of their happiness into my heart, but, God, a heart could only hurt so much.

With my face pressed to her shoulder and my arms held tight around her waist, I permitted myself a moment to release some of the pressure.

I guessed it’d just been bottled up for too long.

“It’s okay.” She soothed me, gently stroking the back of my head and neck with one hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Then, to my surprise, I did speak, warbled by years’ worth of heartache. But what I said shocked me even more than my ability to talk.

“I don’t want my dad to die,” I whispered. Then, suddenly embarrassed, I laughed awkwardly and pulled away, wiping my tender palms over my face, as if I could erase the fact that I’d just soaked her shoulder with my tears. “God, what the hell is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” she said. “He’s your dad.”

“He’s awful.”

She had seen how terrible he was, and she didn’t even know the half of it.

“He might be awful,” she said, not disagreeing. “But you’re still allowed to feel how you feel.”

“I just …” I huffed out a loaded breath, shaking my head and dropping my hands into my jeans pockets.

Then I decided, What the hell? Why not unload it all?

“I have spent my entire life wanting him to love me and not knowing why he doesn’t.

When Laura was around, he … he was able to pretend, I guess.

I don’t know why, but those were the best few years of my life with him.

We got along. Maybe he just liked her, and because she came with me, he forced himself to like me, too, but once she was gone, it was over.

And now …” I sighed, lifting my bleary eyes to the ceiling and pursing my lips, searching for the words I could never before say aloud.

“This was dumped on me. I didn’t want the responsibility of caring for him.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t offer. But I agreed to do it because I thought maybe if he didn’t have a choice but be with me, we could fix this. ”

“Well, that’s what I said,” she replied, her voice soft and gentle, like a warm blanket on a cold winter day. “That could be why he’s hung on for so long. It’s his unfinished business to make his peace with you … for whatever reason he needs to make peace at all.”

“I can’t get him to talk to me, period,” I muttered, gripping the back of my neck. “How the hell are we supposed to make peace ?”

“Well”—she shrugged before encircling her arms around my waist—“have you ever asked him?”

I sucked in a deep breath, then wrapped my arms around her shoulders and touched my chin to the top of her head. “Asked him what?”

“Why he doesn’t like you.”

“Why the hell do you hate me so much?” I could hear myself asking him the words. God, how old had I been then? My early to mid-twenties maybe?

“Once.”

“And what did he say?”

I swallowed, barely able to remember that conversation, but knowing he hadn’t answered. “Nothing.”

“Well, maybe you should ask him again.”

She sighed with her cheek pressed to my chest, the sound gentle and content.

It hurt. I closed my eyes, allowing my soul a moment to revel in the calm she brought.

How good it felt. I longed to end every day this way.

To wrap my arms around her in my bed, to listen to the sound of her breathing until I finally allowed my mind to crawl toward slumber.

To shield her with my body as she shrouded my soul in her goodness and warmth.

From somewhere in the house, one of her kids—CJ maybe—started to shriek, obviously distressed, as the others began to yell for him to “quiet before Mommy hears.”

Melanie pulled from my hold, hastily wiped her cheek, and slapped her hands against her thighs.

“Well, that’s my cue,” she said before hurrying toward the sound of the ruckus.

And as I watched her go, I wondered, How the hell am I supposed to say goodbye to that?