But something wouldn’t let me crawl over and tell them I loved them. Instead I heard myself say, “Oh, excuse me,” and, feeling slightly embarrassed, I walked into the living room and waited for them to change out of their pajamas.
At the head of the bed, Kerry cleared his throat.
I glanced up just as Dad’s eyes fluttered open under the fluorescent lights glaring down from the ceiling.
“Hi, Dad,” Kerry said, leaning into the bed.
“Hi, kids,” Dad said, struggling to sit up. His sheet fell to his waist and I saw his ribs sticking out of his thin sweaty body. He blinked his eyes, wiped off his mouth with his hand, and quickly pulled the sheet over his chest. “How’s your mother,” he asked. “How’s Bea doing?”
Kerry picked up my father’s hand.
A cave-like silence crowded the room.
I swallowed hard. Dad was Kerry’s hero—this was the hardest thing Kerry ever had to do.
Kerry leaned into the bed. “Dad, I’m so sorry,” his words made me think of pebbles moving over shallow water. “Ma passed away yesterday.”
Dad gasped, then buried his head in his hands.
I walked over to the side of the bed. My head was in a vice. Someone was tightening the screw.
Dad’s hands dropped—his mouth chopped at the air, his teeth clicking against each other.
Tears gushed out my eyes.
Dad reached out his long sweaty arms and grabbed Kerry, then me.
Something deep inside me let out a moan as we plunged into his arms. He kept hugging us to his sweaty chest. His whole body shook. “I didn’t want her to die,” he cried into our shoulders, our ears, our hair, “I didn’t want her to die.”
