The Cove (37 page)

“ … not to do it without better backup …”

“ … helluva shot …”

“ … took half his fucking head off …”

“H
ello, Dad? … Are you there? … Is anyone home?”

Julia was trying without much success to hold back a flood of tears as she sat by her father’s bedside in the ICU and looked at the all but empty husk of the man lying beneath the thin, white sheet and blanket. The monitors and medical equipment that surrounded him clicked and beeped steadily. In a setting like this, it was all but impossible to accept that it really was her father lying there.

He looked so diminished … impossibly small.

How could
this
be the big, strong man who had bounced her on his knee and given her piggyback rides when she was a baby … the man who had taught her how to drive a stick shift … the father who had taken her to Red Sox games and went to all her soccer games … the proud father who had been the first to applaud at her high school and college graduations and who had given her away at her wedding?

How could
this
be the man who had been so rock-solid all through her life... the one person she knew she could count on for anything …the man who had fought so hard after his heart attack and open heart surgery … the husband who had broken down and cried and the father she had comforted when his wife — her mother — died?

And now, here they were.

She was sitting at his bedside the same way he had kept vigil at his wife’s bedside through all those horrible, horrible months.

She wondered if, as her father watched his cancer-ridden wife die by inches, he had ever entertained some of the same thoughts she was having now. She wished she dared to ask him, but she was afraid of what he might say.

Had he wished … had he
prayed
as she did now that Death would come swiftly and mercifully to end his suffering?

Did he have similarly conflicted thoughts, wondering and impatiently waiting to begin living a new life without the crushing responsibilities of being an around-the-clock caregiver?

Her circumstances were completely different from his, of course. Her father had chosen to live in The Cove, and even though he — like anyone else who hadn’t been born here — had never been and would never be fully accepted by the locals, he had chosen to stay here. He had liked it here. Acceptance hadn’t mattered to him like it did to her. He’d had his wife … for a while.

“And all I want to do is get the hell out,” Julia whispered as she stared down at her father’s pale, expressionless face. She
slid
her hand across the sheets and clasped his hand in hers. It felt boneless … as light as a bird. She was sickened by how cool and lifeless it felt.

She twisted with guilt.

Now that she was face to face with her father’s mortality and, by extension, her own, all she could think about was her own liberation, how frightening it was, now that it was apparently so imminent. The
only
thing holding her back was Ben.

She had never admitted it to anyone, Ben most of all, but as little or as much as she knew what love was, she was positive she loved Ben. She hoped he loved her. And as much as she wanted to make a new life with him, she wanted more than anything to do it someplace other than The Cove. With whatever money she would inherit from her father, she and Ben would be free to go anywhere he wanted and start over.

Anywhere but here.

But she couldn’t deny how tightly Ben was tied to this town. No matter what he said about wanting to get out, a big part of him belonged to The Cove. The ocean and the town were in his marrow. He was as much a part of this town as she wasn’t. Even if they got married and stayed, she would never be accepted as a
Cove-ah
. And worse than all of that, his erratic behavior … his drinking binges and rapid mood swings were all indications of PTSD. She’d researched it a bit on the Internet and learned that people who had it tended to be in denial about it, and that recovery was long and slow, and there was never a guarantee.

Did she love him enough to trade taking care of her father to become a caregiver for Ben?

Staring blankly at her father, she thought about how she never would have met Ben and fallen in love with him if she hadn’t moved to town to help him out after his first heart attack.

And now, here he was … dying.

The prognosis was worse than bad. If her father ever regained consciousness — and that was increasingly unlikely — the doctors at the hospital would have to perform batteries of tests to determine the full extent of the damage. At this point, it was obvious the damage was severe and extensive. Her father would be lucky if ever spoke or moved again.

“What do you want me to do, Dad?” she asked, leaning forward and bringing her mouth close to his ear. The heat of her breath rebounded from his face. Tears gathered in her eyes as she squeezed his hand more tightly. The bones beneath the skin felt as fragile as glass tubes.

She got no response … of any kind. As far as she could tell, nothing even changed on any of the monitors. Everything kept on beeping and clicking with monotonous, infuriating regularity.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her free hand, all the while staring at her father. Her mind filled with exhortations about fighting back hard because she loved him and needed him in her life … about how he had to hang in there because life — in spite of all of its pain and suffering — is always worth clinging to. But she was afraid if she opened her mouth now, she would scream at him that he had to accept that his time had come.

“It … it’s all right to let go now, Dad,” she said in a forced whisper into the cup of his ear. Strands of white hair like wire protruded from the inside of his ear. “You’ve lived a good, long life. You’ve been a loving, caring husband and father. You worked hard your whole life, and you provided well for
you
family. You done good.”

Wracked by a wave of guilt and grief, Julia let go of his hand and leaned back in her chair. Her throat filled with a sour taste that almost made her gag as she cried.

“Please, Dad … Please … Let go. It’s all right to let go.”

She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him that as painful as it was for him to lose his life and for her to lose him, it would be much worse if he clung to it too hard now. If he let go, he would be freed from a life that honestly might not be worth living … and it would most certainly deliver her from weeks or months or years of taking care of him while she put the remainder of
her
life on hold.

It was a selfish thought, she knew, but it was there nonetheless.

Filled with misery, she let her gaze shift around the hospital room, but her eyes kept coming back to rest on the array of plugs in the wall outlets and the surge protector that rested on the floor next to the bed.

She shivered when a terrible thought occurred to her.

The doctors hadn’t discussed with her whether or not she wanted to take him off life support. She assumed it wasn’t time yet. They had to observe and test his reactions — or lack thereof — before they made a final determination.

But what if she did it?

What if she pulled the plug?

“No! … God Almighty! …
Stop
it!”

She covered her face with both hands and sobbed, ashamed and horrified that she would ever think such thoughts.

“You all right there?”

The voice, speaking suddenly behind her, startled her, and she jumped and looked around to see a nurse, standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry … I didn’t hear you come in,” Julia said, flustered and concerned that the woman might have heard her speaking and divined what she had been considering.

The nurse — the nametag above the pocket on her floral hospital smock read
JOYCE BARNES
— moved closer to the bed. She was young — probably in her late twenties or early thirties. Her face and lips were thin and pale, but her smile was genuine. Julia thought the woman could use a little makeup. She looked as though she didn’t get to see much sunlight, maybe because of working such long hours.

“Do you think … Can they hear us?” Julia asked, indicating her father with a solemn nod of her head.

Joyce shrugged.

“I
dunno
,” she said. “Different people have different ideas, but I’m pretty sure they can.”

“Really?”

Joyce nodded.

“But when I talk to him … when I say things that I
know
would get a reaction from him, there’s … nothing. His breathing doesn’t change, and none of the monitors flicker or anything.”

Joyce came over to the side of the bed opposite Julia and, folding her arms across her ample chest, looked down at Frank
Capozza
. Her face was lit with a beatific smile. Julia thought if her father opened his eyes right now, he might think she was an angel come to take him to Heaven.

And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?

“Whether or not they can hear us,” Joyce said, “I think it’s nice to say positive things so they maybe can hear our voices and know someone who loves ’
em
is right here with ’
em
. I think it helps get them through.”

A blade of guilt slid between Julia’s ribs when she thought that here she was thinking —
and telling
— her father that it was time for him to leave … time for him to
die.

Why can’t I think only positive, loving thoughts?
she wondered, but she knew the answer — Because she was only human.

Joyce did what she had to do, recording the vitals and making sure her patient was comfortable. Then she turned to leave. Before she went out the door, though, she looked back at Julia with concern and compassion in her eyes.

“You’ve been here quite a while,” she said. “If you need a break or something … I’m sure nothing’s gonna happen if you take a little time for yourself.”

“I’m all right,” Julia said without even considering the suggestion. She felt duty-bound to stay right where she was … maybe not until the dire end, if that was coming sooner rather than later, but certainly until she got some more answers and a better understanding of what might happen.

“Can I get you some coffee or tea, then … maybe some water?”

“Water would be nice,” Julia replied, realizing how dry her throat was, probably from the air-conditioning.

Joyce nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once again, Julia was left alone with her thoughts and her fears. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes so tightly they squeezed out thin trickles of tears as she leaned close to him and whispered, “Let go or stay, Dad. It’s okay … I love you no matter what.”

“T
his is complete and total
bullshit,
” Ben said. “There’s no goddamned reason why we have to do this.”

“Yeah there is,” Pete said. “Pops puked all over the living room and passed out on the sofa, and if we don’t do this, The Crowbar will have his ass in a
fuckin
’ sling. ’Sides, it was
your
idea, as I recall.”

In the wheelhouse, Pete was busily preparing to start up the
Abby-Rose
. He all but ignored Ben, who was sure Pete could hear him even above all of his slamming and banging around. His brother’s silence only served to make him all the angrier. He was tempted to haul off and punch him if only to get his attention.

Pete busied himself fiddling with the boat’s electronics, but all he was getting was a wash of static. The GPS screen was still dead.

“
Fuckin
’ piece of shit,” Pete kept muttering to himself as he twisted more dials but got no better results. Finally, he shut the system off and said, “We’ll have to wing it … Do it old school.”

Ben tried not to react, but he couldn’t help himself. It was one thing to leave Julia alone after such a bitch of a day, but there was no way he was heading out to sea at night without the navigation equipment in working order.

He stared at the dock and the ramp leading up to the wharf, imagining striding up there and leaving his brother alone to do their father’s dirty work. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave his brother stranded like that. The sense of family obligation was too strong.

“A fucked GPS and
radio’ll
give us a good excuse if we bump into the Coast Guard again,” Pete said.

“I thought you already tried that with them.”

Pete said nothing, but he turned the ignition. The boat’s engine started up with a low, steady grumble. Water boiled up from the stern as threads of exhaust rose into the air.

“Cast off,” Pete called out to Ben over his shoulder.

For the longest time, Ben didn’t move. He simply stood there, his arms folded across his chest as he glared at Pete, wondering who the hell he thought he was, trying to take over
Capt’n
Wally’s role. It was galling that his little brother would try to boss him around like that, shouting out commands like he was a damned rookie deckhand. If anything, he — Ben — should be piloting the boat tonight, but he had to acknowledge that Pete probably was better at it than he was. It had been too long a time since Ben had piloted a boat. For the longest time, he hoped he would never have to get onto a boat again.