29. Marnie

My dad and Uncle Gus are the same age.

Seventy-two.

Seventy-two is when people should be enjoying retirement. Taking cruises. Buying RVs and traveling stateside.

It’s not when they should be laid to rest.

Or laying in a nursing home on hospice.

The drive back to Lincoln gives me plenty of time to think about life and fairness. Or lack of it.

I hesitate in the doorway to my dad’s room, hit again, with how wrong it all seems.

I passed three ninety-year-olds and one centenarian on my way through the nursing home hallway.

My dad doesn’t belong in here. His hair is still golden brown, for Pete’s sake. A familiar mix of anger and frustration flare in my chest. He drank himself here. No question about it. The liquor might have ruined his body, but my mom’s death broke his heart. His will to live left with her.

I want to rail on him for being so selfish, to ask why I wasn’t worth sticking around for. But, for better or worse, I love the man. And I’ve come to accept him where he is.

It’s not as though I have a choice.

He’s dying. Not today, they say. Or tomorrow.

But the doctors made it clear he’s on a one-way street.

A nurse sits at his side, reading to him from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. She notices his gaze stray and pauses her reading. My heart squeezes painfully with gratitude for this nurse. For all the hospice nurses. I’m not sure where that wellspring of compassion comes from, but I am beyond grateful to them. I can’t be here all the time and knowing he’s being cared for by people with big hearts is such a relief.

She gives me a quiet smile and excuses herself from the room.

I turn back to dad, trying to imbue my demeanor with brisk, cheerful energy. Giving him a quick hug, I can’t help but notice how thin and small my once larger-than-life father looks.

Whipping out the bluetooth speaker I bought him, I start looking for a place to plug it in.

“How come you’re not wearing overalls?”

Dad asks, his voice raspy.

I hand him a glass of water. “Overalls?”

“You’re a farm girl now, aren’t you?”

“Hardly.” I smile.

“Oh, but you are. It’s in the blood, Sunny. I think your mother spent her entire life trying to pretend she wasn’t a farm girl. But all it took was one Dolly Parton song on the radio and she was toast.”

I settle in the vinyl-covered chair by his bedside. “I’ve been going through Uncle Gus’s attic. Found her stuff from high school.”

“Oh yeah?”

Dad’s lips pull into a weak grin. “What secrets have you unearthed?”

“All kinds.”

I sit forward, livened by the topic. “Did you know she was in the homecoming court?”

Dad’s eyebrows fly up. “Your mother?”

“Yes. And she was a cheerleader.”

“The same woman who said mascara was glorified bat shit?”

“The very same.”

Dad grins. “Well, what do you know?”

I lean on his bed, propping my chin in my hand. “She ever talk about her high school days?”

“She didn’t like to.”

Dad shakes his head. “I just knew she hated it. She had a hard time watching you go through high school.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to bear that burden. She was always worried she was projecting on you.”

“She did a damn good job covering that up. I had no idea how much we had in common.”

Dad grins, his eyes crinkling. “Marnie, you two were carbon copies of each other.”

“That’s what people keep telling me.”

I pick at his bedsheet. “I wish I would have asked more questions while she was still here.”

“I know. She left us too soon.”

He puts his hand over mine. “You can ask me. What are you curious about?”

“It’s silly.”

I pause. “I found a box of old notes of hers. Some from an old flame. I just wondered who he was.”

“Should I be jealous?”

I grin. “Hardly. This kid was no Casanova.”

He lays back. “I wonder if that’s the guy who did a number on her. Took Naomi and I years and years to thaw the ice after that heartbreak. Did you know I had to ask for her hand three times before she agreed?”

I grin. “I did know that.”

He laughs. “Stubborn woman. Just like her daughter.”

He pauses. “How is it really going out there? Are you lonely?”

I can’t quite bite back the smile that forms on my lips. “Not at all, actually. People have been super friendly. I even managed to drum up a client.”

“No kidding?”

“A wedding. It’s coming up this weekend.”

“Did you get all your baking things from your apartment?”

“They’re in the back of the car as we speak.”

He nods. “Maybe you could rebuild out in Silver Bend. That would be full circle, wouldn’t it?”

I think that over, but my mind crashes up against a solid wall. “Sorry, dad. I can’t quite picture that one.”