Chapter Six

Dr. Craven sets his tablet on a stool, his face a mask of practiced sympathy. "First, I want to extend my condolences one more time, Mr. Williams," he says. "Dr. Baxter was a highly respected cardiologist in the Denver Metro area, and he will be deeply missed."

My head bops to the cadence of my heart. "I know. Jim told me everyone like him."

The phone in my pocket buzzes incessantly, a persistent reminder of the world outside these hallowed halls of healing. Only the joke is, they can't heal my Papa Bear.

"I understand this is a difficult time, Mr. Williams," Dr. Craven continues, his tone carefully neutral. "But Dr. Baxter is a registered organ donor?—"

I dig my nails down the sides of my face in annoyance. "Spare me the theatrics, doc," I snap. "Can't I have a few goddamn minutes to process everything without you vultures circling around his carcass?"

He clears his throat and continues. "We have a patient in critical need of a heart transplant, and Dr. Baxter is a perfect match. The transplant team will also recover any other viable organs and tissues to help other patients in need."

I comb my messy hair back; the situation speeding up on me. I know, deep down, that Brogan wouldn't want me to artificially keep him alive. But the thought of signing the papers, officially ending his life, feels like a betrayal of my vows.

Dr. Craven shoots a glance into his watch, almost as if he's practiced how to handle this type of ordeal in medical school. "Time is of the essence."

"Yeah," I mutter almost unintelligibly. "Just one more minute alone, please."

As he leaves, I finally take another gander into my phone. Melanie's texts flood the screen, which seem to be a string of frantic questions and condolences. But I can't focus on them now. All I can think about is Brogan, lying lifeless in that bed, and the impossible decision that lies ahead of me. Yet one more message pierces through my grasp and I read them, anyway.

Are you freaking serious? Oh my God, Max.

This is awful!

But you are the strongest kid out of all of us. If anyone has the ability to tell Lily in the appropriate manner, it's gotta be you for damn sure.

Just take some deep breaths and even ask someone in the hospital… a social worker, patient advocate, or someone like that.

They'll give you the advice you need.

…Max?...

Call me if you can. I just tried to call, and it went straight to voicemail.

Dr. Craven returns after a few agonizing minutes with a young woman trailing behind him. "Mr. Williams," he gestures towards her. "This is our psychiatry resident, Dr. Mayer."

"Yeah, hi," I mumble, thick with grief. "It's been a hell of a night."

She offers a sympathetic smile. "I can only imagine, and I'm here to offer any support or guidance you might need," she assures me. "So please, feel free to ask me anything."

"Actually—" I reply, cut short by another buzzing in my pocket. "I do have a question."

Before I can ask, Dr. Craven interrupts. "Mr. Williams, I know this is difficult, but it's time to honor Dr. Baxter's wishes."

A lump forms in my throat as I nod. "I understand—where—where do I sign?" I respond frantically.

He passes me the clipboard and clarifies the locations where my signature is required. Dr. Mayer excuses herself, leaving me alone with the daunting task of authorizing Brogan's organ harvest.

"Here, you sign as next of kin," Dr. Craven instructs, pointing to the first line. "Here's my nicer pen."

As I sign my name, he continues. "And here, you authorize the hospital to proceed with the organ and tissue recovery process."

Dr. Mayer returns with a padded chair on wheels, a silent offering of comfort as I scrawl my final signature.

"That's all," Dr. Craven says, pointing toward the nurse's station. "I'll provide copies of this paperwork for you."

"Thanks," I manage, fresh tears welling up in my eyes.

Dr. Mayer gestures for me to take a seat in the padded chair while Dr. Craven's rundown of the next steps. The procurement team will arrive shortly. They'll take Brogan to the operating room, and— I tune out the rest, as those details are too grotesque to contemplate.

He leaves shortly, allowing time for Dr. Mayer to spend one-on-one time with me. She pulls up the plastic chair to take a seat, so that we're face to face.

"You had a question?" She reminds me gently.

I nod. "Yes," I reply, my voice trembling. "We—I have a daughter—Lily—on the autism spectrum, and I don't know how to tell her about this."

She nods in kind. "Hmmm, okay," she says, patting me softly on the knee. "That's going to be difficult for you, but let me provide some insight."

"Okay—"

"First, choose a neutral location to tell Lily tonight," she advises, gesturing a hand. "Try to focus on positive memories, perhaps even give her a special gift."

As hard as it is to focus on her words, I just can't. My mind is jumbles with emotion and worry. Thoughts of our home, now an empty shell, are the first to flood my mind. No more shared dinners—breakfasts. No more lazy mornings in bed, no more welcoming kisses when I return from a week's long trip. And then there's the bigger picture—how I'll raise Lily all by myself. How can I possibly fill Brogan's shoes?

Dr. Mayer waves her hand in front of my face, her dulcet voice pulling me back to the present. "Mr. Williams, are you okay?"

I startle, realizing I've drifted off. "Yes, I'm fine," I lie, forcing a weak smile. "Just a lot on my mind."

My phone buzzes again, reminding me that the world keeps turning in the face of tragedy. I manage a quick reply to the best I can.

Hey sis. Still here. Got some advice on how to tell Lily Bean. Taking her to the chapel now. Wish me luck—I need it.

More tears well up again, blurring my vision as I head toward the nurse's station. There's Lily, her tiny figure hunched over a coloring book with a splash of color amidst the hospital's muted tones.

She drops her red crayon and runs toward me with outstretched arms. "Maxie!"

My heart aches at the sight of her innocent joy. How do I tell her that her world has been shattered? Or how the man she called Daddy will never come home? How do I explain death to a child who struggles to understand even the simplest of emotions?

"Honey," I say, taking her hand. "I need to take you someplace special."

Her enthusiasm is evident. And I'm sure she thinks we're going to see Brogan. Boy, is she in for a rude awakening and the pain grazing me inside is all the reminder I need. We walk in silence towards the elevators, my mind racing with Brogan's words used in earlier scenarios: "Lay out every detail as if it's in a picture book. She lives for imagery."

A-ha. Good idea, Brogan.

Lily's small hand clutches mine as we enter the dimly lit chapel. The silence is a stark difference to the chaos unfolding in every direction of the corridors. But here, it's a sanctuary for my raw grief. If there is a God, then he will give me the strength to tell her Brogan isn't here any longer. I lift her onto my lap, the gravity of words heavy on my tongue. "Honey," I begin, speaking low. "Remember when we read that book about the little bird who got hurt and couldn't fly anymore?"

Lily nods, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Yes, Maxie, the bird was very sad."

I nod in agreement. "That's right," I reply to the cadence of my quickened heartbeat. "You see, Daddy had an accident tonight."

She gasps. "Noooo, Daddy, what's wrong?"

My explanation endures. "Sometimes, when our bodies get hurt really badly, they stop working, just like the little bird's wings."

Explaining this to her, finding the right words to fit her seven-year-old world, feels duplicitous of the life Brogan and I planned. When I held her in my arms for the first time all those years ago, I saw a future filled with laughter and joy. Walks around Disneyland with cotton candy smeared on her cheeks. College drop-offs, filled with nervous excitement and the bittersweet pride of watching her spread her wings. Wedding days, where I'd proudly stand beside Brogan as we watched her walk down the aisle, her face radiant with love.

Unfortunately, those dreams have been crushed. The vibrant colors of Disneyland have faded to a dull gray, and the future I envisioned has suddenly dissolved into a painful haze of uncertainty. All I can see now is the empty space beside me, the ache in my heart that's a constant reminder of the life we'll never, ever have.

Lily frowns as her brow furrows in concentration. "But Daddy's not a bird."

"No, sweetie," I agree. "Daddy's not a bird, but sometimes even the strongest, healthiest bodies can get hurt so badly that they can't work anymore—" I feel the acrid taste of what I'm about to say building up at the back of my throat. "And when that happens, the person inside—the part that makes them who they are—goes to a special place," I add, shoving away the urge to cry in front of her.

I rest my palm against her backside for emphasis. "But it's a place where they're happy and safe, and they don't feel any pain."

Tears protrude from her miniature cusps. "So—so—Daddy is in that special place?"

Nodding, my surprising words of wisdom come to a standstill. "Yes, Lily Bean," I say, my tone practically crackling. "Daddy's in that special place now."

She nods slowly, her eyes searching mine for reassurance. "But I want Daddy to come home," she whispers.

I bring her closer to me, sensing her small body quiver in my arms. "I know, sweetie. I want him to come home too," I reply. "But sometimes the special place is where our loved ones have to go."

Lily's voice shreds. "Oh Maxie, I'm so sad."

"But you know, they never really leave us, you know," I assure her. "Daddy will always be in our hearts and in our memories—we'll always have those special moments we shared with him."

She rests her head on my shoulder, her sobs gradually subsiding. "I miss Daddy," she drones. "Like lots."

"I know, Lily Bean, I miss him too," I affirm, swiping the tears away from my cheek. "More than you could ever know."

She pulls away with an exhaustive nod when I glance at my phone to see how late it's gotten. Early more like it.

"Okay, love," I say, scooping her up into my arms. "Let's go home—we're both pretty tired."

My mind races on the road back home, where I'm accosted by a jumble of thoughts and emotions from this incredibly taxing night. How can I possibly raise Lily alone? It's not only the concept of doing it all by myself. But also the fact that I'm usually traveling for weeks on end. It's just not possible. Something's got to give.

I take a quick glance at Lily in the rearview mirror. She's fast asleep, slumped over in the car seat. Then I remember Brogan's words back when we took her home from the hospital. "With my conservative family and Lily's confusion, what would you prefer she refer to you as?"

I always thought the question was silly—navigating the judgmental waters of a public school where a young girl would introduce her two dads. Narrowing down on ‘Uncle Maxie' offered the best compromise to fit our needs, but now I understand why Brogan wondered this seven years ago. I'm not her father. Not in the way Brogan was. But I'm the closest thing she has left, and that means something.

My thoughts turn to the practicalities. How will I manage her school schedule? Her therapy appointments? Her daily routines? Somehow, the notion of tucking Lily into bed from halfway across the world becoming the new normal seems unfair mostly for her. She needs consistency, and I'm unsure I can provide that for her as much as Brogan could. My support system is thousands of miles away, and I have a fashion shoot in New York City in just a few days. Can I really ask Melanie to fly out here just to care for her niece? I push the worry aside for now—I'll simply have to deal with it later.

Continuing down Colorado Boulevard, a sign for a 24-hour Rite Aid catches my eye. With it comes a reminder of Dr. Mayer's advice earlier tonight. Finding a special gift for Lily that she can associate with Brogan's memory is ideal much sooner than later. Stifling a yawn of my own, I carefully pull into the parking lot. Quietly, I step out and around to the back seat so I can gently shake her awake. Probably one parenting fail among many, dude.

"Hey, munchkin," I whisper. "We're making a quick stop before we go home, okay?"

She rubs her eyes, surprisingly agreeable for a sleepy kid. We walk hand in hand into the store, heading straight for the toy aisle. At first, I pick up a plush elephant, but something about it feels wrong. Brogan wasn't an elephant kind of guy. He loved shiny things, however. Any kind of trinket that sparkled and catches the light. The phone in my pocket buzzes again, but I ignore it. I'm on a mission and this is my moment with Lily Bean.

Heading for the collectibles section, my eyes scan the shelves for something—special. Next to my hand is a mirrored music box with a porcelain ballerina twirling to a tinkling melody. Lily winces while covering her ears.

"Ouchie," she blurts.

Quickly remembering the loud and obtrusive noises part of her autism, I shut the box with another pang of guilt twisting in my gut. "Sorry, sweetheart," I say, pulling her into a hug. "That's not a good toy for you."

Lily rubs her eyes with another yawn. "Why are we here, Maxie?" She asks, her big brown eyes catching my gaze.

"Well, chipmunk," I reply, kneeling down to her level. "I thought we could find something special to help you remember Daddy—like something you can keep with you wherever you go, like a treasure."

She tilts her head with a furrowed brow. "A treasure?"

"Yes," I whisper enthusiastically, though I'm far from feeling it on the inside. "Something to remind you of all the good times you had with Daddy—all the love he had for you."

Her eyes light up with understanding. "Okay, Maxie," she agrees exhaustedly, taking my hand and leading me further into the store.

As we round the corner, my phone buzzes again. I finally check it with a knot forming in my stomach as I read the message from Melanie. It's a simple question, but it brings a fresh wave of pain and uncertainty. Something that has absolutely nothing to do with Brogan's departure tonight.

How are you going to avoid relapsing? You haven't had a drink in almost ten years!

The recognizable shudder of past mistakes washes me over at this moment as I lift my head, finding myself face-to-face with the drugstore's bountiful selection of liquor. Just an arm's length away. My gaze fixes on a shelf of whiskey, lined up perfectly at eye level. A jolt of recognition, and I'm transported back nine years.

There I was, slumped on a bar stool in a dim-lit dive on Colfax. My hand trembled, swirling the last sip of an old-fashioned before me.

"Another Jack, Tommy Boy," I slurred, loud enough for the entire bar to hear my inebriation. "Thirsty summbitch!"

Thomas, the bartender, shuffled over to my aid. "I think you've had enough for tonight, my friend," he said, gently prying the glass from my fingers.

Just as Keith Urban's "Only You Can Love Me This Way" blared from the jukebox, the bar door slammed open. Brogan's face showed a thundercloud of anger as he stormed towards me, resembling an angry bull released from the chute.

"I've been worried sick about where you've been," he insisted, pointing his finger back over a shoulder at the door. "Do you know how long I've been searching for you, wondering if you were dead in a fucking ditch or beaten to death by some Hell's Angels in some back alley?"

Heaviness sank down in my throat. "Uhhhh ? —"

His ire continued. "Have you even checked your phone in the past three God forsaken hours, Max?"

In my heart, I knew how seriously I'd fucked up. However, the liquor had complete control over my emotions. "Butt—butterball—ha what a funny word," I slurred.

Brogan's face twisted with rage, his tone dripping with pure venom. "This," he spat, jabbing a finger into my chest. "This pathetic charade ends now—" he stammered. "Consider yourself fortunate that you didn't get arrested for stumbling home drunk and nearly crashing into our gate," he hissed. "And where the hell were you all night, huh?" He paused briefly. "Do you even care about this marriage, or me?"

I waved him off. "But I'm happppyyy. Don'tchya—don'tcha—don'tcha want me to be happy?"

The sting from his slap could've sent me straight over the bar. "God damn it, Maxwell Florian Williams!" He bellowed, yanking me up by the shirt before storming back to the entrance.

I stumbled after him.

Thomas shouted in our direction, angry at the prospect of being stiffed. "Hey! He hasn't settled his tab."

Brogan turned around to face Thomas, halfway across the room at that point. "How much this time?" He asked, rolling his eyes.

"$68.50," Thomas affirmed. "Plus tip."

I could read the indignation on Brogan's face. "Here's a hundred—keep the change."

Brogan twisted around to drag me out of the bar with my left arm. Meanwhile, I let a sigh fall from my hot lips. "I cannnuuu—I can quit if ya—if ya wants me to."

He stopped abruptly, propping me against the brick wall. "Babe, you have to want it for yourself," he whinnied. "There's help out there," he added, gripping my chin, forcing me to meet his stare. "At this rate, you'll have cirrhosis in five years—dead in ten."

Tears welled up in my eyes. "I'm ssss—sssorry, lover," I choked out. "I'm sooo sooo sorry if I hurt'ch-ew."

Brogan pulled me into his tight embrace. "You do hurt me, but I'll be there for you if you really want to stop," he claimed, wiping away my tears. "We'll talk more tomorrow after you've had a night to sleep it off."

A loud announcement over the Rite Aid intercom pulls me from the memory, where I find myself in the same staggered stance, a reach away from my poison. Brogan kept his promise, standing by me every step of the way. And for almost ten years, I haven't touched a drop. But now? Melanie's words reverberate in my mind as if she verbally spoke them. How can I NOT drink away this pain?

Since my father passed away, this is the first traumatic experience I've encountered—the same sorrow that led me to seek solace in alcohol initially. But now, I have Lily Bean. Shouldn't that be a good enough reason? The irony is sickening—Brogan, killed by a drunk driver, and here I am, tempted to follow the same destructive path. A cold dread washes over me as I realize Lily is gone. Panic sets in. I'm losing my child on the very first night that I'm solely responsible for her. Fuck!

"Lily!" I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth.

Rounding the greeting card aisle, I spot her playing with a snow globe in the photo department. Relief floods right through me. I can't let this become a regular thing. No. I could lose her to child protective services, and that thought is unbearable.

"Oh honey, there you are," I say, crouching down. "What'cha got there, munchkin?"

She shakes the globe, enamored by all the tiny foam flakes swirling around a plastic frame waiting for a picture.

"That's for a photo," I explain, pointing to the globe. "This makes it look like it's snowing around the picture."

Lily's face lights up. "Should we put a picture of Daddy in here?"

"That's a novel idea," I reply, pinching my chin. "Say—would you help me find one on my phone so you can always remember the good times with Daddy?"

Under the fluorescent lighting, we huddle together with my phone in both of our hands. And the memories come flooding back, ushering in more pangs of gut-wrenching agony. As Lily laughs at a silly picture of Brogan and her in the Costco snack aisle, I can't help but smile. The first genuine smile I've felt all fucking night.

She swipes to another photo—the three of us in my Hoosier backyard during Easter. "This, this, this one," she exclaims. "This is my favorite."

I nod in approval. "Then this one it shall be," I affirm, grunting enthusiastically. "For our one and only Lily Ambrosia Baxter, Princess of Denver County."

The word ‘our' stings. It's going to take a while to shake that habit, apparently. Lily, thankfully, doesn't notice my slip. I pull myself up, holding onto a display for support, then we head to the Kodak printing machine.

"Watch this magic, Lil," I say, taking her hand.

Using Bluetooth, I beam the photo at the kiosk. Lily gasps as it appears on the screen.

"Wow, how do you do that?" She asks.

My head wavers, all the while I shrug my shoulders. "It's just magic—isn't it cool?"

She nods, pointing to the photo tray. "Look, it's coming out here."

"Yep," I affirm. "That's our pictures," I advise, taking the print of two wallet-sized copies to the register.

Lily's inquisitiveness persists on our walk to the cashier. "Why are there two?" She asks, reaching for her favorite candy bar on the shelf of impulse items.

"I'm going to have one too, so we both have Daddy with us everywhere," I reply, pulling her hand away from the candy selection. "No munchkin, no chocolate tonight."

A disgusted sigh leaves my lips. "Hello?" I call out, waving both arms up at the surveillance camera. "Is anybody working tonight?"

Lily sighs with a frown. "But Kit-Kats are my favorite, Maxie."

Rebecca, the blonde employee, finally arrives after a minute of standing here in the cool breeze. I give in, letting Lily add her candy to the pile, knowing how hard this night has been for the both of us.

"Okay, Lil, but you have to wait until tomorrow to eat it."

Upon paying, Lily takes my free hand on our way out the sliding doors. Rebecca shouts from the corner of the register stand. "Have a great night," she waves.

Great night? I can't imagine a worse one.

Lily falls asleep in the car in no time. Meanwhile, I turn the ignition and am immediately greeted with an oldie's station filling the car. The lyrics in question hit me like a punch to the gut. It's our wedding song, "How Deep Is Your Love" by The Bee Gees. My heart pounds to the melody while tears flood my eyes for the umpteenth time tonight. I'm fully aware of the irony in this moment. But strangely, I feel comforted. Is this Brogan or some cosmic force sending me a message? A message of peace. Reassuring me that Brogan's passing was painless?

As I put the car in reverse, my gaze shifts down to my Cartier wedding ring, sparkling under the dim glow of parking lot lighting. While the last notes of the song fade away, and a palpable warmth spreads through me, I can't help but question if this was Brogan's way of saying he's all right, or that he loves me one last time.