I knew that and to stop her from bothering me again, I was going to play along. Go to the hospital, visit my father, listen to what they had to say and walk away.
“Where is she?”
Colton nodded toward the door. “Outside.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
18
Maddox
I parked outside of the hospital but didn’t get out of the car. “Now, what?” I drawled, drumming my thumbs over the steering wheel.
“I can’t force you to talk to your parents, Maddox. I already did what I set out to do.”
“And what is that?”
Her lips twitched. “Get you out of bed. Take a shower. Have breakfast. Stop drinking for a few hours. Mission accomplished.”
“You’re such a bi–”
“Finish that sentence, I dare you,” she grinned, almost mockingly.
“Biscuit.”
Lila rolled her eyes. God, she was messing with my head. With us like this, I could almost forget the last month. It reminded me so much of the old times.
I could almost forget that I was… going to be a father… and that Lila had walked out on me when I needed her the most. But I didn’t forget. And the reminder sliced through me with a rusty blade that cut open my already painful wound.
I got out of the car and slammed the door. Lila followed me inside the hospital. I was instantly hit with the smell of sickness and death. I went to the help desk, and they redirected me to where Brad Coulter was staying. A private room in the upper floor. Lila and I took the stairs, and when we walked into the corridor, my mother was there.
Leaning against the wall, waiting. “Maddox,” she breathed, in what seemed like relief.
“I’m here. Now what?” I said in a bored voice.
My mother flinched and then sniffled. “Your father wants to speak to you.”
Lila touched my back, and her touch seared me through my shirt. Even as her hand fell away, I could still feel her on my skin. “I’ll wait here.”
I stuffed my fists in the pocket of my jeans and stalked forward, into the private hospital room. My feet paused at the door, and I came to a halt at the sight that greeted me. My whole body froze, and my heart jumped to my throat. Shit. Goddamn it.
I didn’t know what I expected when I walked into the hospital. Hell, I didn’t know what to think when my mother called me, weeping over the phone, as she told me my father was in the hospital and sick.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t react.
Not until now.
I didn’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it.
My father, looking thin and frail, in a hospital bed that made him appear even smaller. Multiple machines beeping and attached to him. The Brad Coulter I knew was strong and confident, with arrogance that matched my own. He was always well-dressed, always spoke like he owned the room and everyone in it, always stood tall.
This was not Brad Coulter.
I didn’t know what to do, what to say… so, I stood frozen at the door and stared at the man, who was my father. A stranger. My lungs clenched, a reaction I hadn’t expect.
I didn’t care, I told myself.
But the brief ache in my chest told me that I was still capable of feeling emotions for my shit dad.
My mother grasped my hand, shocking me even more, as she pulled me farther into the room. She let go, once we were standing next to the bed, and sat down on the chair. Taking my father’s hand in hers, she squeezed, and his eyes opened.
Dark circles, tired and hollow. There was barely life in those eyes that used to hold so much power. He blinked at her and then smiled, as much as he could. It was a small twitch of his lips.
My mother returned the smile, a wobbly one of her own. “He’s here,” she whispered. “He came to see you. I told you, he would come. Didn’t I?”
Who the fuck were these people? Because they weren’t my parents, for fuck’s sake.
When did this happen… how did this happen?
He looked at me, and his dry, cracked lips parted, as if to speak, but there were no words. His throat moved, but my father, for once, was silent.
My mother swallowed, making a choked sound at the back of her throat. “He tires easily and can’t really speak much.” She grabbed the pitcher of water and poured a glass full, before helping her husband drink it.
I rubbed a hand over my face and squeezed my eyes shut. This wasn’t… real. It was a fucking nightmare; it had to be.
“How sick are you?” I asked, through gritted teeth.
“Cancer,” my mother replied, so quietly, I almost missed it.
“Cancer?” I parroted. “When? You were healthy the last time I saw you.”
“He wasn’t, but he didn’t want anyone to see it.”
“When?” I barked.
“We found out about four months ago,” she said, looking away from me.
Four months. Four goddamn months and they were telling me now.
“You didn’t think I deserved to know before?” My mother winced, and she had the audacity to look ashamed.
I speared Brad Coulter with a look. “Why now? Why tell me now?”
“Because…” he started, only to end up coughing. My mother jumped and helped lift his head from the pillow. He coughed and coughed, the dry sound rattling from his chest and echoing through my ears. At the sight of blood dribbling past his lips, my hands started to shake.
My fists clenched, and I had to look away. This man wasn’t my father.
After a moment, the coughing fit ceased, and I started to pace the hospital room. “Finish your sentence,” I demanded. Cold, yes. But I didn’t know how else to react, how else to speak to them.
“Because… I want… to fix… this… I want a… chance.”
“So you don’t die with the guilt that you were a shitty father?”
“Maddox!” My mother hissed. I swiveled around and matched her glare with one of my own.
“What? The truth is not something you want to hear?”
“I deserve that,” my father admitted tiredly.
Fuck. This. “I’m out of here.”
Before I reached the door, my mother’s voice stopped me. “I want to tell you a story.”
“I’m not here for some fairy-tale retelling, Mom,” I seethed.
“Nothing about this story is a fairy tale, Maddox.”
If you asked me why I didn’t leave, why I stayed by the door and listened to her, I wouldn’t have an answer to that question.
I simply didn’t know.
Maybe it was something in her voice. The pain, the sorrow, the guilt. Maybe because it all sounded so real to my ears. I felt things I shouldn’t have.
Turning around to face them, I leaned against the door and crossed my arms over my chest. “Speak.” One word. It was all she needed.
She gripped my father’s hand, her eyes glassy. “When I met your father, he didn’t have any food to eat.”
Wh – what the fuck?
She kept talking, before I could say anything, as if she was scared, she’d lose whatever courage she had to speak. “I remember that day very clearly. We were neighbors, and he came knocking at my door. He asked my parents if he could have a plate of food, or even a loaf of bread, to feed his younger brother.”