And most of all, he was fairly sure he had a new friend.
“Pretty sneaky, hon,” he said, and then he was asleep.
13
Lauren
Sixteen months left
October 10
Dear Dad,
I was going to make a bucket list but decided that was super cliché. There are, however, things I want to do, and I’m aware that I might not have all the time in the world. I want a doggy. I want to eat dessert as often as possible, which I already do, honestly. Um . . . other stuff? The truth is, my life is so happy, it feels wrong to wish for more experiences or possessions or pies (well . . . maybe the pies are okay).
But life is normal now. IPF is a part of my life. I’m not smiting myself with ashes.
You know how so many women say the best day of their life was their wedding day? Not me. The best days (note the plural) are the regular days, Daddy. The days where it’s sunny and dry and you can smell the donuts from Knead. When Sebastian FaceTimes me without Jen knowing and we have our private chats, or he puts the phone down and I just listen to him playing. When Bruce compliments me on something at work, not because he feels sorry for me, because he’s not like that, but because I did good work. Sitting up in the garden, spying on the people across the way and making up stories about them.
I’m happy, Dad. I’m really okay, and I’m so happy. Don’t worry about me, okay? I love you.
Lauren
Pebbles, their newly acquired Australian shepherd mutt, could dance, walk herself by holding the end of the leash in her mouth, sing along to the radio, sneeze on command and catch a Frisbee in midair.
She also ate toilet paper, was terrified of pigeons, consistently shat underneath Josh’s desk and spontaneously peed when she heard the word ride.
“Now I see why she was put up for adoption,” Josh said, cleaning up her sixth pile of poop of the weekend. “Don’t tell my mother she crapped inside. Our whole house will be bleached.” Stephanie was on the obsessive side of clean, one of her many attributes. Who else had a mother-in-law who’d clean your kitchen for fun?
Poop aside, life was good. The foliage had been especially bright this year, and they’d spent the day at the Waterman Street dog park, throwing balls and sticks for half a dozen canines as Pebbles tried in vain to herd them. Now, Lauren was on the couch, using her oxygen because it had been a vigorous day. Pebbles was equally tired, curled up at Lauren’s side, head on her lap. The silkiest ears in the universe. Sure, Pebbles had chewed up the clicker last night, and she was a bed hog, but these ears.
“You doing okay?” Josh asked once the trash was emptied and he’d scoured his hands.
“Yep. A little tired.”
He looked at her, squinting as if he didn’t believe her.
“A lot tired.” She didn’t want to tell him too many details every time something came up, husband or not. Her bones felt sore, and her muscles ached and her eyes felt dry and sticky. But tired would cover it.
“How about a foot rub?” he asked.
“Is there a woman on earth who’d turn down that offer? Sold, handsome.”
He sat down and pulled one of her feet from under the blanket, his hands warm against her cool skin. “‘Did you ever think that you’re a hero?’” he began to sing, grinning at her. His voice was adorably off pitch, and she smiled. Goofing around was a conscious effort for Josh, so it made her all the more thrilled.
“Not that song,” she said. “Anything but that one.”
He raised an eyebrow and kept singing. “‘You’re everything I thought I should be.’”
“Wrong words. Please stop or I’ll stab you.”
“‘I can fly higher than a seagull . . . ’”
“Eagle. Keep singing and you won’t get laid tonight.”
“‘Cuz you are the’— Whoops, song’s over.” He kept rubbing her feet, smiling at her.
“That was the song Jen picked for the father-daughter dance at her wedding,” she said, the memory making tears prick at her eyes.
“Oh. I’m sorry, honey.”
“No, no. It was sweet. And it was the perfect song for them.” She swallowed.
“What would your song have been?” he asked.
“‘Everything I Am’ by Celine Dion,” she answered instantly. “I picked it the first time I heard it. I was probably ten.” He looked blank. “It’s basically the best father-daughter song in the world. I’ll play it for you sometime.”
“Sounds good.”
“Do you ever think about your father?” she asked gracelessly.
His hands paused rubbing her feet, then resumed. “Not really. I never had a father. Ben was a great stand-in, as you know. Taught me to ride a bike and throw a football, which was funny, because he couldn’t throw to save his life. We made paper airplanes a lot. Really good ones.” He looked at his hands on her feet.
“Ben is the best.” She hesitated, then went on. “But just out of curiosity, you never checked Facebook or Ancestry or anything?”
“Why would I? Whoever he was, he left before I was born.”
“I don’t know. Hovering at the edge of death as I am, these things occur to me.” She bit her tongue . . . he didn’t like when she made jokes about her health, but he let it go this time and even rolled his eyes.
“Well, don’t think about it. And drop the melodrama.” He switched feet, his hands strong. The man had skills.
“Do you hate him, honey?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m disinterested. He was a deadbeat jerk who abandoned my mother. Why would I want to meet him?”
“Maybe just to see what your ethnic background is? Find out where that black hair came from?” His mother was white blond, and Lauren wondered if maybe his father was Latino or Native American or Italian. “But it’s your call, of course.”
“Don’t . . . don’t do anything, Lauren. Don’t reach out to him or anything like that. This is not that sappy television show.”
“I won’t, honey. I was just curious.” She paused. “Also, I love that show.”
He looked at her sternly. “He’s a nonentity. The end.”
“Got it.” She tickled his ribs with her free foot. “If you promise to bake me a pie with those apples your mom brought over yesterday, I’ll have sex with you right here and now. Couch sex, and you know how hot that is, big guy.”