Forgotten Promises (The Promises Series Book 2) (26 page)

“Mrs. Jamison, and…”

The consultant pauses, giving me time to fill in the blanks.

“Ethan. I’m his son.”

“And Ethan, right, of course. I’m not sure what you’ve been told about Frank’s condition, so I’ll explain a little of what’s happening. Individuals such as your husband and father with a spinal cord injury are at increased risk for developing respiratory complications. Any loss of respiratory muscle control weakens the pulmonary system, no matter what the level of injury is. However, the risk for complications is greater for persons with a complete injury, as is Frank’s case. He lacks the ability to breathe without assistance. His lungs have collapsed from the lack of air being drawn into them.

“Now, we have made adjustments and we're able to counter this with his ventilator. However, Frank is now suffering from pneumonia. In cases such as this one, it is the leading cause of death. We have him stable at the moment; he’s falling in and out of consciousness and is suffering from delirium. At present, Frank is not what we would consider to be strong enough to withstand the surgery that is needed to re-attach his skull to his spinal column. We have postponed the procedure, but I would urge you to make arrangements in case the worst happens.

“I realize that this is an upsetting time. I’m going to leave you to digest what I’ve just said. Please feel free to go in and visit with Frank. From what the nurses tell me, he has been asking for Ethan. Good day.”

Out of everything that the guy just told us, the news I’m struggling with most is that Dad has been asking for me. He did say that he was delusional, though, so maybe that explains it. I look over at Mom sitting in the dull grey chair against the dull blue wall of this dull fucking room. Why would they make it so depressing? It’s a family room, or at least that’s what it said on little white plaque on the door. I'm under no illusion of what it’s used for—to deliver bad new to the patients’ relatives—so why make the room so cold and miserable? The room alone makes me want to slit my goddamn wrists, and that was before the doctor came in and gave us the bad news.

“Your dad has already made all the arrangements for his death. We both have; we did it a few years back, all I need to do is contact the company that we organized it through. They’ll take care of the rest.”

I know she’s talking to me, but it’s like she’s on autopilot: her face is completely blank, bereft of emotion and her voice is low and monotone.
I wonder if this is how I looked when he was beating me? Switched off.

“That’s one less thing for you to worry about then, I suppose. Do you want to go in and see him before me? I think I’d rather I speak to him alone if that’s okay by you.”

“Of course.” She walks behind my chair and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze as she leaves. It's meant as a show of affection, but it’s the shoulder I messed up in the accident and it sends searing hot pain down my torso. I have to clench my teeth to control my reaction. I watch her as she crosses the hall into Dad’s room before the door closes and blocks my view. I pull out my phone and attach my headphones, then flick through my music until I find something to lose myself in. I’d do just about anything at the moment to escape the voices running wild in my head. They’re arguing to say goodbye and be the bigger man with the ones screaming to get answers —to hell with whether or not it’s an appropriate time to demand them. I’m so tired of the noise, I’m tired of the confusion, and I’m tired of life.

Black Label Society is not a good band to listen to when you’re half asleep. My music is on shuffle and I almost jump out of my skin when the track changes and
Stillborn
bursts out of my headphones. My heart’s slamming against my chest and I’m panting in shock. I need to get a grip. I sink back into the chair and check my watch; it’s been over a half an hour since mom went into his room. I’m contemplating going and knocking on the door when she walks back into the family room with two bottles of water and hands me one.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, honey. Your dad is a little out of it; he’s asking for you, but I’m not sure how long he’ll be able to stay awake. He was drifting in and out as I was talking to him.”

I feel the icy fingers of dread grasp at me. Suddenly the reality that I need to walk back into his room and talk to him is no longer a notion, and it scares the shit out of me. I twist the cap off of my water bottle and take a long pull as Mom watches me intently. I don’t think she believes that I’ll go through with at, hell; I’m not sure if I do.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in there with you?”

I almost laugh. The concept of her wanting to help me now seems utterly futile. He can't get out of his bed and beat me, so for once, I don’t need any help. Where were the offers when I was locked in the garage with him?

I can feel my temper begin to rise, and I tighten my fists a couple of times to try and shake it.

“No, I’m good,” I tell her as I get up and make my way towards his room. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I need to stand and take a few deep breaths before I finally push the door open and step inside.

“Dad?”

I walk around the bed and hesitate. I don’t know if I should sit down or not. He doesn’t look like himself. There’s a thick layer of scruff on his face, and his hair is greasy and limp, laying flat against his forehead. He’s always been clean-shaven and immaculately presented, even on days when he’s not working or we’ve been on vacation. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look anything other than entirely put together. There are tubes and wires running all over his bed, and the position he’s propped up in looks awkwardly unnatural. His eyes are closed and I spin on my heel and head for the door just when his gravelly voice cuts through the din of the machines breathing for him.

“Son?”

I stiffen at the use of the word; it denotes a certain amount of closeness that we don’t share, and it’s not what I’m accustomed to him calling me.
Prick, Ungrateful Little Shit, Waste of Space
have generally been his preferred terms of endearment toward me when there’s been nobody else around to hear.

I turn slowly and meet his gaze. It’s like looking at your worst nightmare and yet you’re completely awake, rooted to the spot. You want to scream and run, but nothing happens. The compassion that a son should be feeling isn’t there. I’m not even sure that the hate is. I’m hollow, an empty vessel that’s going through the motions as we stare at each other hard.

“You’ve been asking for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I ask as I walk around to the chair at the end of his bed. I hold onto the back, rather than sit. It looks like I’m hiding behind a giant blue cushioned shield. Maybe that’s how I’m using it; the subconscious does funny things, and I feel better knowing there’s a barrier between us even though I know he can’t move.

“Your mother and I have been talking. I guess you’ve been updated with my condition? Well, the truth is that my prognosis is less than rosy, and I want to get my affairs in order.”

An affair, is that what I am? Just another menial inconvenience that needs to be dealt with? I’m gripping the chair as hard as I can, forcing myself not to interrupt him.

“I wanted to let you know that I don’t blame you.”

I’m not sure that I’m hearing him right; I watch him closely, waiting for him to carry on, but it’s apparent that he’s expecting my response.

“Don’t blame me for what? For you being in here? Wait, no…you don’t blame me for screwing up your life? Or you don’t blame me for my real mother dying? Maybe you don’t blame me for aggravating you and making you hit me. Come on Dad, you’ll have to help me out here because there’s quite a list to choose from. Which one is it that you’re absolving me of?”

My knuckles have turned white from the pressure I’m applying to the back of the seat, my breathing feels labored, and I’m having a hard time maintaining control over the volume of my voice. I want to scream, toss this chair at him and let go of the rage that’s simmering so close to the surface. It worries me that I may not be able to contain it much longer.

He squeezes his eyes shut and works his jaw back and forth. He doesn’t have the luxury of expressing the anger and frustration I can tell he so badly wants to let out.

“I guess I deserve that. I know I’ve been less than a model father to you.”

My sardonic laughter halts his admissions. “Model father! Damn…you must be on more drugs than I realized if you think your parenting skills can even be classified in the same realm as a model father.”

It’s a low blow; I don’t know why I’m trying to aggravate him and pick a fight. I suppose I’m not comfortable with this situation, and when you feel out of your depths, you revert to what you know. All I’ve ever known with my dad is him talking down to me, shouting, complaining. I’m so used to it that it makes me uncomfortable when he’s not. I don’t know the last time we had a discussion that didn’t end in him yelling at me about what a worthless screw up I am.

“Let me get this out, will you?” he wheezes and I can tell it's an effort for him to talk. “I know my failings. I don’t need them pointed out. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late, Dad.”

“You have every right to hate me. I’ve struggled for so long, watching you grow into a version of Samantha that I just couldn’t deal with. Your mannerisms, appearance, everything about you reminds me of her. I know you can’t help that, but you need to understand what it’s like for me. Every time I look at you, I see her. Then I’m overcome with resentment, and I can’t stop my anger. I’ll start talking to you and my control slips and before I know it I’m not talking, I’m screaming louder and louder and I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop myself.

“I thought that if I emotionally disconnected from you, it would get better. Before long I felt completely overwhelmed that I couldn’t get control over the bitterness. The resentment was eating at me, and I didn’t want anything to do with you. Day after day, especially when you were younger, I wanted to be left alone and for you to be quiet. That way I wouldn’t have to be this monster I’ve become. But you always wanted my attention, my approval. You wouldn’t listen. If you’d just listened, I wouldn’t have had to be so strict.”

I’ve known for a long time that he hated me, but having him confirm it to me has my whole body vibrating. I’m not sure if it’s shock, anger, or hurt, even. I need to sit down. I move around the chair and drop into it like a ragdoll as my legs give way, and I clutch at chunks of my hair as I rest my elbows on my knees.

“Why did you not just give me up? Why spend your life looking after a kid you hate?”

“I don’t hate you…I love you.”

That has my attention; my eyes snap back to his. “Are you kidding me right now? You’ve just told me how much you resent me. You’ve basically blamed me for making you into a monster, and now you’re telling me you love me. Well, fuck you!”

“Now, hold on—”

“No, you hold on! You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to explain the abuse away with a ten minute monologue, tag on a token ‘I love you’ for good measure, and think that absolves your treatment of me for my entire goddamn existence.”

He struggles to respond. He’s panting and I think it’s because he’s flustered and wants to shout back but I’m wrong. The pants turn to gasps, like he can’t breathe, before his eyes begin to roll back into his head and the machines he’s hooked up to begin blaring out a litany of beeps and sirens.

Teams of nurses descend on the room in a rush, lowering his headrest and frantically moving over him. I’m rooted to the spot. Should I stay or go? I’m not sure what’s happening but it doesn’t seem good. I can’t help the morbid thoughts invading my brain
what if this is it? What if he’s about to die right now?
Suddenly I’m beyond angry. How dare he say those things to me and then die. I’m not finished. I need to talk. He’s had his turn and it’s not fair; I want mine.

“Sorry Mr. Jamison, but I need you to leave,” a nurse says, ushering me out of the room as more medical staff flood the small space around him. I don’t need to be asked twice. I practically run out of the room, but instead of finding Mom I sprint down the corridors and make my way out of this torturous place. I burst through the main doors and out into the street before realizing that it’s not the hospital I need to escape, or even my father—it’s my own mind.