Page 1 of Wake Me Up (New England Bay Sharks #5)

Eleven Years Old

I stand in the doorway of the dim room, unable to pull my eyes away from my dad as he lies in the bed. This room used to be a TV room for us kids, but my mom converted it into my dad’s room when he got sick.

Every second, I know he’s slipping further away. It could be today, it could be next week, or it could be a month. That’s what everyone keeps whispering anyway.

The weird thing about death is, there is no way to pinpoint when exactly it’s going to happen. So, all anyone can do is just sit around and wait.

I guess we’re all waiting for that moment to come, if I’m being honest.

The nurses come and go, checking on him what seems like every few minutes, and my mother sits in the chair by his side, just like she has for the past few weeks with hardly any breaks.

My little sister, Penelope, pushes past me, a book tucked under her arm because, just like every other afternoon since Dad’s been sick, she’s going to read to him.

Me? I’ve been avoiding this room like the plague, acting like if I so much as cross the threshold and enter, I’m a goner. I’ve always considered myself a tough kid, and even at just eleven years old, I’m not the one other kids want to mess with. But here I am, being an absolute wimp.

Right now, I don’t feel strong or tough.

The man I’ve always seen as invincible—as freaking Superman without a cape—is dying.

He’s fading fast, and all I keep thinking about is all the crap I never had the chance to learn from him.

I can push-mow the lawn, but I don’t know how to even use the Weedwacker.

And one thing about my dad? He likes to have the perfect lawn.

Now, his beautifully manicured yard is going to be half-assed because I was too busy being a lazy kid on weekends to take the time to have him show me how to run his equipment.

I’ve watched him shoot a deer and gut it, but I never learned how to do it myself.

Even fishing, he’d do most of the work, and I’d just show up when I felt like it.

And even if I caught something, he’d help me unhook the damn thing.

He has the answer for everything, but he’s going to die, and that leaves me here … to be the man of the house.

I’m not a man. I’m a kid. An immature, dumb one at that.

“Tripp, why don’t you come sit down?” my mom whispers, waking my dad just as my sister opens her book. “Pea was just about to read a chapter to us.”

My sister is only nine and yet reads at a higher level than even I do. She’s probably going to cure cancer or something crazy, but I’m not going to tell her that—it’d go to her head too much.

“Nah, that’s okay.” I feel my dad’s sleepy stare on me, but I look down to be sure to avoid it. “I have some … homework to do.”

Before my mom can demand me to sit or my sister looks at me with those judging eyes because I’m not the same as her—I can’t sit next to our dad and pretend everything is fine—I start to turn, but that’s when my dad’s voice stops me.

“T-Man,” he says in a dull croak, but it comes out more like a plea. “It’s a good book. It’s about a fisherman who gets lost on an island. You’d really like it.”

I cast a look toward him, and even though he’s lying under the blankets, it’s so clear to see how much his body is failing.

His hair is gone from the chemo, which didn’t even work, and his eyes have this glossy, gloomy look to them.

His lips are chapped, and he’s aged so many years in a short time.

I can’t look any longer, so I look down at the floor.

“I’ll just listen from here for a minute,” I murmur, knowing that he deserves more than this, but I can’t give him anything else because if I do, I’ll fall apart.

I want to be strong for him. He needs me to be strong for him, and so does my mom.

Pea starts to read, confident and clear, but I keep my attention on the floor. I can still feel my father’s stare on me, but I can’t risk looking at him. Every time I do, I crack a little more.

Before he got diagnosed with cancer nine months ago, he wasn’t just healthy; he was a tank. I’m built just like my father, and because of that, I started playing hockey at a young age.

I’d like to play more, but my mom has been so busy with my dad that it seems like a dickhead move to add another thing onto her plate. But maybe, one day, I will.

What? One day when he dies? You selfish prick. Guilt strikes me, and I swallow harshly in an attempt to listen to my sister read a book that I can’t focus on enough to even know what’s going on.

After about fifteen minutes of her reading, all that keeps running through my head is, Will this be my dad’s last night? And will it be spent listening to this boring story that Pea thinks he loves? God, I hope not.

“Daddy, I have to use the bathroom,” she says sweetly, standing up and setting her book down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, sweetie,” he answers weakly, and I know it took every bit of his energy to say those two words. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

As Pea races past me, my mom stands quickly and leans down and kisses my dad’s head. “I’m going to start dinner, my love. Do you want us to bring you out into the living room, or would you like to stay in here?”

He stares up at my mother, and even through the look of defeat in his eyes, his face lights up. They’ve been together since they were both sixteen. For as long as I can remember, they’ve talked about how, one day, when my sister and I were grown, they’d buy an RV and travel the country.

Now, they won’t get the chance. The most traveling they got to do together was around to my stupid hockey games. Every. Single. Weekend.

I go with random families of kids on my team. Everyone chips in to make sure I get to where I need to be while my mom cares for my dad.

“I think I’ll stay in here for now, babe.” He wheezes a few times, but tries to hide it. “Could you walk out slow so I can get a good look at your ass?”

“Mr. Talmage!” she whispers loudly. “Your son is right there.”

When they turn toward me, I jerk my thumb toward the hallway. “I’m going to go do my homework now.”

“Tripp, wait,” he says.

I’m stopped once again by my father’s voice, and my mom quickly heads toward me, patting my shoulder .

“He needs to talk to you, sweetie. Please, just go sit next to him.” Her eyes bore into mine, and I can feel the desperation inside of them.

I want to take off running. I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say because it’s probably goodbye.

Knowing how important this is to my mother and seeing my dad lying helpless in his bed, I nod. “All right,” I utter, earning me a small but genuine smile from my mom before she ducks out of the room.

And then … it’s just him, me, and the machines he’s hooked to.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I slowly walk toward him and stand beside the bed.

Jerking his chin toward the chair, he wiggles his body around a bit to sit up a little straighter. “Sit. Please.”

Exhaling, I swallow and lower myself into the chair. I’m not one who backs down from much, but right now, I’m scared. I’m scared to look at him. Scared to talk to him. And I’m even scared to touch him because he’s so fragile.

“Whatchu been doing, son?” he drawls. “Besides trying to avoid your old man.”

He tries to make it sound teasing, but I know there’s sadness too. I don’t want to lie to him, but I also don’t know what to say.

“Just been, you know, busy with school.” I stop, pulling my hands out of my pockets, and look down at them.

The silence is incredibly loud, and I don’t know how to make it better because I don’t know what to say.

“Tripp, can you look at me, buddy?” he says, and just like that, a lump works its way into my throat and puts my composure at risk. “Please?”

My eyes lift, and I stare at the stranger in front of me who has taken my father’s—the strongest man I know—body and replaced it with this sick person who doesn’t have enough life to even get up without help.

But the softness that’s always been in my dad’s eyes—a look that told me I could always tell him anything—it’s still there.

The cancer didn’t steal that too at least.

“I know this is hard for you.” He speaks in a whisper. “And I know coming in here and seeing me like this isn’t easy.” He shakes his head. “I fucking hate it.” He grits his teeth, and his fists clench. “I’m sorry about my language, but I’m so angry, Tripp. ”

His entire face crumples, and he sucks in a breath quickly. Tears well in his eyes, and he reaches his hand out. I look down at it for a second before I lift mine and bring it next to his.

His hand folds over mine, and his gaze holds my own for a moment before he speaks again. “It’s okay, Tripp. You don’t always have to be so tough.”

My lip trembles, but I try to fight it by swallowing down that damn lump that’s only growing bigger. “Dad, I …”

My vision grows blurry as my eyes fill with tears and my nose begins to run. There’s no stopping these emotions now. I’ve suppressed them for months, and here they are, bubbling to the surface when my dad feels his worst.

“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s okay, bud. I know. I know this isn’t fair. I know you’re scared. I know you’re trying to keep it in for me and for your mama.” He stops, his lip quivering. “And for Pea too.”

I don’t say anything. Even before he got sick, I was a kid of few words.

Now, I have nothing to say at all. Words seem like they’d be useless at this point.

And I know if I spoke—if I even just said a sentence to tell him how afraid I really was—I’d lose it.

I’d fall apart, and he’s not strong enough to put me together.

This isn’t like when I fell off my bike and broke my arm. That day, he was there, ready to scoop me up and carry me inside. This isn’t like the time I tried football and ended up with a concussion, and he was there to lift me off the field.