Podczas gdy Patricia przygotowywała dokumenty, które miały pozbawić mojego męża i teściową wszystkiego, co im się należało, ja przeszłam do ostatniej fazy operacji – przynęty. Musiałam dać im ostatnią szansę, nie dlatego, że myślałam, że ją przyjmą, ale dlatego, że musiałam udowodnić sędziemu i sobie, że nie ma dla nich ratunku. Otworzyłam rozmowę z Bradym. Ostatnia wiadomość była ode mnie sprzed tygodnia, w której pisałam mu, że go kocham. Zrobiło mi się niedobrze, gdy na nią patrzyłam. Napisałam:
„Brady, proszę, odbierz. Tu Victor. Jest w złym stanie. Chyba umiera. Pyta o ciebie i Elaine. Proszę, musisz natychmiast wrócić do domu. Karetka już jedzie.”
Skłamałem o karetce. Chciałem dodać pośpiechu. Patrzyłem na ekran. Potem pojawiły się trzy małe kropki. Pisał. Serce waliło mi jak młotem. Część mnie, ta głupia część, miała nadzieję, że powie:
„O mój Boże, natychmiast wracamy.”
Telefon zawibrował.
„Kochanie, uspokój się. Nie dramatyzuj. Wiesz, jaki on jest. Ciągle miewa gorsze dni. Mama mówi, że po prostu szuka uwagi. Jesteśmy w trakcie kolacji w programie. Nie możemy po prostu wrócić. On jest twardy. Da sobie radę do poniedziałku. Daj sobie radę”.
Wpatrywałam się w ekran. Nie dramatyzuj. Szukając uwagi. Właśnie podpisał na siebie wyrok śmierci. Nie odpowiedziałam. Zamiast tego nacisnęłam boczne przyciski na moim iPhonie. Klik. Zrzut ekranu zrobiony. Wpatrywałam się w obraz rozmowy. To był ostatni gwóźdź do trumny.
Miałam dowód porzucenia, dowód zaniedbania medycznego, dowód kradzieży finansowej, a teraz dowód całkowitego bankructwa moralnego. Spojrzałam na Victora. Drżącą ręką właśnie kończył podpisywać dokumenty. Spojrzał na mnie wyczerpany, ale triumfujący.
„Czy on ugryzł?” zapytał Victor.
Podniosłem telefon.
„Z haczykiem i ciężarkiem.”
„Dobrze” – wyszeptał Victor, odchylając głowę do tyłu.
“Now we wait.”
Saturday night descended on the house like a shroud. The temperature outside had dropped into the teens, and the wind howled against the siding. But inside, the silence was heavier than the storm. The only sound in the living room was Victor’s breathing. It had changed around 6 mph. It wasn’t the rhythmic, steady breathing of sleep anymore.
It was Cheney Stokes’s respiration, the death rattle. It would start deep and loud, rasping like a saw through wet wood, get faster and shallower, and then stop completely for 10, 15, sometimes 20 seconds of terrifying silence before starting again with a gasp. I sat by his side, holding his hand, counting the seconds during the pauses.
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”
“Jenna,” he whispered during a lucid moment.
His voice was barely a threat of sound.
“I’m here, Victor.”
He looked at the ceiling, his eyes glassy.
“The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away,” he quoted softly.
“Job 1 to 121. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
He was finding peace. He was ready. But his family wasn’t here. And despite everything, despite the theft, the neglect, the cruelty, I needed to give them one last chance to do the right thing. Or I needed to document them refusing to do it. I pulled out my iPhone. I didn’t call Brady. He hadn’t answered my texts all day.
I called Melissa, Brady’s sister. She was the baby of the family, the one who always had her phone glued to her hand. I hit the FaceTime icon. I swiped down on the control center and tapped the screen record button. The little red dot started blinking, ringing, ringing. Suddenly, the dark, somber living room was illuminated by a blast of harsh blue light from the screen.
“Oh my god. Jenna.”
The connection stabilized. The image was chaotic. It looked like they were in a piano bar. Red neon lights flashed in the background. A guy in a tropical shirt was banging on a keyboard. And people were singing an off-key rendition of Sweet Caroline. Melissa’s face filled the screen. She was sunburned, wearing a tiara that said vacation mode and holding a drink that was bright blue.
“Hey girl,” she screamed over the music.
“We can barely hear you. The signal is trash out here.”
“Melissa, listen to me,” I shouted, leaning close to the phone so they could see the desperation in my face.
“Put your mother on now.”
“What? We’re ordering shots. Mom’s dancing.”
“Put Elaine on the phone, Melissa. Victor is dying.”
The smile dropped from Melissa’s face. She looked confused, then annoyed. She turned the camera around. The image swirled, showing a crowded table covered in empty glasses and halfeaten appetizers. Elaine was there. She was laughing, her face flushed from alcohol, wearing a sequin top that was far too young for her. Brady was next to her. His arm draped around Hannah, who was giggling at something.
“Mom!” Melissa yelled.
“It’s Jana. She’s being hysterical again.”
Elaine grabbed the phone, bringing it close to her face. Her eyes were glazed.
“Jana, what is it now? We are trying to enjoy the captain’s dinner.”
“Ela, stop drinking and listen,” I said, my voice shaking with a mixture of fury and grief.
I angled my phone down so they could see Victor in the background, his chest heaving, his skin gray.
“Look at him. He’s in Cheney Stokes breathing. He has hours, maybe less. You need to fly back tonight. There’s a flight from Nassau to Charlotte at 6:00 p.m. I checked.”
Elaine didn’t even look at her husband. She looked at me with pure disdain.
“Are you crazy?” she snapped.
“Do you know how much last minute tickets cost? They’re like $800 a seat.”
“He’s your husband, Elaine,” I screamed.
“He’s dying.”
“Oh, stop it.”
She waved her hand dismissively.
“He’s been dying for 6 months. It’s just a bad spell. Besides, these tickets are basic economy. They’re non-refundable. We’d lose everything.”
I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice.
“Non-refundable,” I repeat it.
“You’re worried about a refund while Victor is taking his last breaths.”
Brady leaned in over Elaine’s shoulder. He looked annoyed like I had interrupted a crucial play in a football game.
“Babe, seriously,” Brady slurred slightly.
“Well be back Monday morning. Just keep him comfortable. Give him some more morphine or whatever.”
“I can’t give him morphine, Brady,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“Because your mother filled the bottle with tap water.”
For a second, there was silence on their end. Elaine’s eyes widened slightly, but she recovered instantly.
“You’re lying,” she hissed.
“You’re just trying to ruin our trip because you’re jealous. You’re an army nurse, Jana. You deal with dead people all the time. do your job and let us enjoy our vacation. We’ll see you Monday”
and then the screen went black. Call ended. The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening. The sweet Carolyn singalong was gone. The laughter was gone. All that was left was the sound of the wind outside and the ragged breathing of the man they had thrown away. I stared at the phone.
The little red recording icon was still blinking. I stopped the recording. The video saved to my photos. Evidence. Irrefutable. Damning evidence. I slowly lowered the phone and looked at Victor. I thought he was unconscious. I hoped he was unconscious, but his eyes were open.
He was looking right at the blank TV screen where the reflection of the FaceTime call had just played out. He had heard it all. Nonrefundable. Do your job. Enjoy our vacation. A single tear, thick and slow, rolled from the corner of his eye, tracking through the deep lines of his cheek before disappearing into the pillow.
It wasn’t a tear of pain. It was a tear of absolute heartbreak. The man had faced the Vietkong, had built a career, had raised a stepson as his own, only to be told he wasn’t worth the price of an airline change fee. He closed his eyes, and a shutter went through his frail body. Then he opened them again and they landed on the corner of the room. Patricia, the lawyer, was sitting there in the shadows of the wing back chair. She had been there the whole time. She had heard every word.
Her face was pale. Her lips pressed into a thin white line of professional fury. Victor turned his head slowly toward me. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have the breath for it. He just looked at me, then at Patricia, and gave a single sharp nod. execute the mission. Patricia stood up immediately. She didn’t say a word. She knew time was a luxury we no longer had. She walked over to the coffee table and laid out the documents she had drafted earlier. The amendment to the revocable trust and the last will and testament.
“I need you to witness this. Jana,” Patricia said softly.
“And I’m recording the signing on my own device for redundancy.”
She placed a pen in Victor’s hand. His hand was shaking violently. The tremors were uncontrollable now. I reached out to steady it, but he pulled away. He wanted to do this himself. He gripped the pen like it was a weapon. He summoned every ounce of strength left in his dying body, channeling all the betrayal, all the anger, and all the love he had for me into his right hand. The pen touched the paper. Scratch. Scratch. It wasn’t a pretty signature. It was jagged and raw, but it was there, Victor Harmon.
He dropped the pen. It rolled across the table and fell onto the floor with a tiny clatter. He looked at me, and for the first time in days, the tension left his face. The shame was gone. The worry was gone. He let out a long sighing breath. He had severed the ties. He had protected his legacy. He squeezed my hand, his grip weak, but present. The deal was sealed. The family on the boat was still dancing, oblivious to the fact that they had just lost a fortune. And more importantly, they had lost the only man who had ever truly loved them.
“It’s done, Victor,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
“Rest now. I’ve got the watch.”
Patricia left around midnight, taking the signed documents with her. She promised to file them first thing Monday morning before the courthouse even unlocked its doors. Now, it was just the two of us again, me and the squad leader. The house was quiet, settled into the deep, groaning silence of a winter night. The wind outside had died down, leaving a stillness that felt heavy like a held breath. Victor was awake, but barely. His eyes were open, tracking dust moes in the dim light of the table lamp, but I could tell he was seeing things that weren’t there. Maybe the jungle canopy of Vietnam. Maybe his childhood home in Virginia.
“Peaches,” he whispered.
I leaned in close.
“What was that, Victor?”
“Peaches,” he rasped again, licking his dry, cracked lips.
“Mom’s cobbler.”
My heart squeezed. He wasn’t asking for medication. He was asking for a memory. He wanted the taste of home one last time.
“I’m on it,” I said softly.
I went to the kitchen and raided the pantry. I found a can of Delmonte sliced peaches in heavy syrup that had probably been sitting there since last Thanksgiving. I grabbed a stick of butter from the fridge and a shaker of cinnamon.
I didn’t have time to bake a real crust, and he wouldn’t be able to chew it anyway. I dumped the peaches into a small saucepan on the stove, adding a generous slab of butter and enough cinnamon to turn the syrup a dark, rich brown. As the mixture heated up, the smell wafted through the kitchen, sweet, spicy, and warm. It smelled like safety. It smelled like the childhood I never really had and the comfort Victor had tried to give me over the years. I poured a small amount into
I carried the mug back to the living room.
“Careful,” I said, sitting on the edge of the ottoman.
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