Page 41 of Ebbing Tides (The Lighthouse Duology #2)

Slowly, I took a seat beside his bed and looked at his face.

The cancer had eaten away at him over the months he'd been on hospice, stealing piece after piece until there wasn't much left but skin and bones.

Yet, somehow, my life had been run on such autopilot that I never stopped to take the time to notice just how frail he'd become.

It was hard to see him now as the man I'd once been so afraid of.

The man who had beaten me senseless. The man who had killed my first dog.

The man who had scared me into running away.

He was broken now, feeble and weak. A mere suggestion of what once had been … and it made me sad.

Oh God, I was so sad .

I slumped forward and rested my elbows on my knees. With a groan, I wrapped my hands around the back of my neck.

“Fucking hell, Dad,” I muttered quietly, squeezing and pulling at my flesh.

“Goddammit, why did shit have to be the way it was?

Why couldn't you have just loved me? Hell, you didn't even need to love me; you could've just liked me, and I would've been happy. It's all I’ve ever wanted—you know that? All I’ve ever wanted was for you to fucking like me, for you to be proud of something I did.

But it was never enough. It didn't matter what I did, how many hoops I jumped through, how miserable I made myself to fucking appease you …

it was never ever enough. God, I'm forty-eight fucking years old. Almost fifty. Jesus, statistically, I have, what, another twenty, maybe thirty years left? There's more behind me than ahead of me, and I’ve wasted it. I’ve wasted my entire fucking life on trying to make you happy, and you're gonna leave this fucking world without ever …”

My throat constricted, cutting off my words as my eyes welled up with hot, angry tears. I swallowed against the torrent of emotion and cleared my throat once, twice, trying to chase away the sorrow, trying to be fine , but to no avail.

“God, fuck you,” I choked out, shaking my head and swiping at a rogue tear that had weaseled its way from between my lashes.

“Fuck you for everything, Dad. Fuck you for lying to me, for making my life a living hell, and for accusing me of killing my fucking wife. Fuck you for wanting me dead. Fuck you for putting so much shit on my shoulders when I was a kid. But most of all, fuck you for making it impossible for me to leave you. I could never walk away. I could never just walk the fuck away, no matter how—”

On the bed, Dad's hand twitched. It was lying on his chest, curled around his blanket, but suddenly, it shifted and dropped to the bed beside him.

With slow, jerky movements, it came closer to where I sat before lying limp at the edge of the mattress.

My breath caught in my lungs, and my brow furrowed at the sight of those dry, bony, wrinkled fingers.

I thought about Greg Dumass.

I thought about poor Lizzie Copeland.

I thought about Laura and my unborn son.

All those people I had known, cared about, loved … and they had all died alone. Each and every one of them.

I would’ve given anything to go back and hold my wife’s hand, even as she lay in the frozen world, bleeding out onto the bricks.

What I would’ve given to hold my son, to see his face for all of a moment, even if it were only to witness him taking his last breath.

My palms itched as I stared at Dad’s hand.

His fingers lifted and fell, reaching.

He doesn’t want me , I thought, glancing toward the door and wondering where the hell my sisters were.

“My … boy …” Dad whispered with a chest-rattling wheeze.

My neck nearly snapped as I turned to look at him. His position hadn’t changed. His eyes hadn’t opened. But his fingers continued to lift with erratic movements, trembling, as if desperate, and without another second of doubt, I took that cold, bony hand between mine and held tight.

“Hey, Dad,” I whispered.

His hand lay limp against my palms, but the movements of his fingers stopped, and he settled with a sigh.

“My … boy …”

He spoke those two words with something damn close to affection. It hurt. Oh God, it hurt to hear him speak to me now that way when I’d longed for it all my life.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m here.”

“Tell my boy … I’m … sorry …”

I blinked, taken aback. Had I heard him correctly? Was my mind playing tricks on me, imagining his whispered words to be something they weren’t?

“What?” I asked, leaning closer. Holding his hand tighter.

But he didn’t reply.

His breathing slowed, his neck lolled at an unnatural angle, and as my sisters hurried back into the room, he took his final breath.

“Sorry,” Lucy hurried to say. “I went to that bathroom, and then Ricky called to ask—”

“Is he gone?” Grace asked, sparing me the explanation of where she’d been for so long.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure I cared.

That last moment with my father was mine. Perhaps the only decent one we’d ever had. And no matter how much I’d thought I needed it before, nothing could’ve prepared me for just how grateful I was to have it now.

“Yeah,” I replied, still holding on to his hand. “He’s gone.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Lucy whispered, instantly choked by the weight of her sadness.

It took a great deal of willpower to let his hand rest, lifeless, on the mattress.

It took a lot of strength to let go. But I did, and I held my eyes shut for a moment, hoping I could remember the way his fingers had felt against mine.

Hoping it wouldn’t fade away as quickly as Laura’s perfume from her pillow, but knowing all the same that, with time, it would.

Somewhere down the line, I would think back on this moment and beg my mind to bring it back, scold it for not trying harder to hold on to the thing I had wanted more than anything in this world—my father’s affection.

But for now, I committed it to memory, knowing every other chance was gone with his dying breath, but at least I had this once. And once would have to be enough.

I opened my eyes and stood up in a hurry, turning abruptly to head toward the door.

“I’m going to call hospice,” I announced. “Someone has to let them know.”

Neither of my sisters jumped up to offer their help in making the phone call, and that was just fine. I needed to get out of that room. I needed to get away. I needed to breathe again.

But more than anything, I needed to hurry up the stairs to my childhood bedroom, where I’d once found my mother’s lifeless body.

I needed to lock the door and press my back to the wall.

Just so I could squeeze my eyes shut, slide to the floor, and cry for every chance we never had to be father and son.

And for the one and only time he had wanted me.