I rented a room in the motel across the street for a place to dump my stuff and occasionally grab a few hours of sleep or a shower, but the bulk of my time I’ve sat right here by his side, holding his dry, papery hand. Listening to his breath, which has become quite superficial.
The few times he was alert, he didn’t speak much until the last time, yesterday morning.
“Good things come to those who wait is a load of shit,” he said, his red-rimmed eyes clear, burning in mine. “Fucking go after what you want, son. Chase it. It’ll be over in a blink.” The hand in mine gave a squeeze. “Don’t waste your life waiting.”
I’ve been sitting here, thinking on those words since he drifted off. Already I’ve spent a lot of years waiting, at the mercy of others. I think I stopped thinking about what I wanted until I first saw Robin. I definitely wanted her.
Want, not wanted, it’s not like I stopped.
Things aren’t always as easy as that though, are they? Going after what you want, chasing dreams. It’s not always about you. The fact I’m sitting here, by Frank’s side, is testimony to that. He wanted to die alone; I needed to see him off. The outcome is the same but the path not that clear-cut.
I want Robin but I’m not sure I’m what she needs. Still, with Frank’s last words on a loop in my head, I want to see if maybe there’s a way. If she’s still willing to try.
I watch as Julie takes a sponge swab from the glass on the nightstand and moistens Frank’s dry lips.
“How can you tell?”
“Years of experience.” She drops the swab back in its glass and checks his IV.
“Why do you do it? This work,” I clarify.
She stills her hands and smiles at me.
“Because no one should leave this earth alone.”
“He wanted to.”
“No, he didn’t,” she disagrees, running a gentle hand over his sparse hair. “If he did, he wouldn’t have come here.”
She turns away from the bed and I expect her to walk out of the room. Instead she grabs a chair from against the wall and places it on the other side of the bed, sitting down and taking Frank’s other hand in hers.
Less than an hour later, he breathes his last thin breath.
She doesn’t jump into action, but sits there a while longer, still gently stroking her thumb over his pale, lifeless hand. As if giving the reality of his death time to settle in. With me, and maybe even with her.
I didn’t know him as well as I did my sister and mother, but as I’m letting him go, I feel some of the guilt I’ve carried around their deaths let go as well. I’d like to believe, given the chance; I would have been there for them as well.
“I need to make some calls.” I stand, my knees creaking, and let his hand slide from mine.
“You can use the small waiting room down the hall.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, I leave Frank in her gentle hands.
“Olson’s”
Jimmy’s voice seems loud after hours spent in an almost silent room.
I take a seat in one of the club chairs in the room and drop my head back.
“It’s me. He’s gone,” I tell my friend, fatigue lacing my voice.
“Made it past Thanksgiving after all.”
“He did.”
“You okay, brother?”
It takes me a moment before I can answer.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now,” I confess.
After spending days by his bedside, it seems strange just to pick up where I’d left off. Sacrilegious somehow.
“Call his friends. Call Bunker. They’ll feel better knowing you were there. You can do that.”
“Okay. Do you have—”
My sentence is cut off with the ping of a message, and then another one.
“That’s the contact information for Enzo Trotti and Bunk’s cell phone.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“I should be back tomorrow. Unless you want me to come back today?”
“No rush, brother. Take all the time you need.”
The line goes dead and for a moment I rest my eyes and get my emotions under control. Then I dial Enzo.
“Who’s this?” The bark on the other side startles me.
“Mr. Trotti, it’s Gray. Gray Bennet. I’m here in Clare, with Frank Hanson. He…um…he just passed away.”
“I know who you are, boy. Kicked you out of my restaurant enough times.”
Despite the circumstances, I bite back a smile. As teenagers, Jimmy and I would hit the pizzeria with barely enough money for a slice each, but we’d wait for other diners to get up so we could nick their leftovers. Usually until the waitress spotted the extra plates and beer glasses on our table and would call Mr. Trotti, who would toss us out.
“So the old coot is gone, is he?” The words may seem harsh, but the man’s feelings underneath are easy to detect.
“Yes. They kept him comfortable so he wasn’t in any pain,” I volunteer. “He woke up a few times and we talked some until yesterday. He never woke up again and maybe forty minutes ago he simply stopped breathing.”
“You were there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a good thing you did, son,” he mutters, and I can feel the approval down to my bones. “Things going down for you the way they did, it ate at Frank for years.”
“That wasn’t on him.”
“Think I don’t know that? The whole town carries some of that responsibility. People weren’t blind, but no one stepped in.”
“Was a long time ago, Mr. Trotti.”
“You tell yourself that, boy?” That shuts me up. “Didn’t think so. And fucking call me Enzo, that Mr. business makes me feel old.”
“Sure thing.”
“Gray?”
“Yes, Mr…Enzo?”
“Got a pie waiting with your name on it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Robin
I don’t know if it’s the weather—which has been cold and gloomy—or the fact I don’t have Christmas with my family to look forward to, but my ass has been dragging since Thanksgiving.
The days are long, the nights empty, and my own company leaves a lot to be
