Chapter 23: Chapter Twenty-Three

LOGAN

The only thing getting me through this family dinner is knowing that Rae’s coming over after.

Aunt Tricia, Dad’s sister, arranged the whole fucking thing, and then today, she told us she could no longer go, but we should enjoy without her. I’m pretty certain it was a setup and she never planned on joining.

She’s always trying to fix our family, which is an impossible task. Now that we’ve got a deadline, I guess she’s pulling out all the stops.

~Shit~. That was dark.

“Logan, it’s been too long,” Yvette exclaims when she opens the front door.

I grin and let her crush me in a hug. Yvette is my parents’ chef. She cooks dinner for them three or four times a week.

Growing up, I was always embarrassed to tell friends that my family had a chef, but in truth, I loved having Yvette around.

Dad wanted Zach and me to have manlier hobbies, but we managed to sneak into the kitchen for impromptu cooking lessons when he was at work.

“Sorry, Yvette. I’ve been busy with the new job,” I respond when I catch my breath. She gives the tightest hugs. I don’t know how I made it all the way through childhood without breaking a bone.

“Taking over mustn’t have been easy.” She pushes loose strands of hair from my forehead. “I’m sorry, hon. Your family is in my prayers. You know that.” Yvette is very religious.

My views don’t align with hers, but it’s nice to hear that someone is praying for our family. If prayers work, we need all the help we can get.

“Thanks, Yvette. I tried your crab-cake recipe last weekend. I’ve been on a seafood kick recently.”

It’s glaringly obvious that I’m changing the subject, but her face lights up anyway. She loves that I took up cooking.

None of her kids have any interest, so I think she likes knowing that she has someone to pass her knowledge to. “How’d they come out?”

“Not my best, not my worst. Nothing compares to yours.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“I think Yvette makes perfect,” I laugh.

My smile fades when Mom taps my shoulder. “Your father is hungry,” she says quietly.

“Coming right up, Lorraine!” Yvette sings.

“Thanks.” Mom shoots her a weary smile, and I follow her to the dining room.

In a past life, Mom was an interior designer. My parents’ house—the one I grew up in, though I refuse to call it “my house”—is tasteful and elegant. Each room has its own subtle theme.

The dining room is my least favorite place in the house, thanks to the horrid memories of past family dinners, but its theme is my favorite.

The walls are a deep red, almost maroon, and the decorations and paintings give it a farm-like feel. Nothing too in-your-face.

The wooden accents remind me of the type of fence that might surround an animal paddock, which is fitting because Quincy dinners always have me feeling caged in.

Mom hasn’t returned to work since Zach. She lost her spark that day. Every last bit of her self drained out when the hospital called.

Not even a week later, Dad found her a doctor that writes painkiller prescriptions, and she’s been a zombie since. Her face weary, her voice quiet, her words expressing the bare minimum.

I think Dr. Adams upped her dosage. She’s barely functioning tonight. Yvette serves the salad, and Mom misses the bowl with her fork. Dad has to guide her hand to the right place.

I stare in disbelief. It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever seen him do for her. I expected a scoff when the prongs dug into the tablecloth.

“Logan,” Dad starts, “made any changes yet?” He means changes in company strategy.

I swallow a bite of salad. “No. We had an executive meeting this morning and decided to keep our risk appetite as is. We’re also expanding your client service initiative. We’re hiring more relationship managers and—”

“I know what my initiative is.”

I force a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. How are you feeling?”

Mom misses the bowl again. Dad doesn’t bother to assist with her aim this time. He’s too busy glowering at me.

“I rejected chemo and surgery. They’re only going to prolong the inevitable. I’d rather go out without the side effects.”

My stomach freezes. My heart pounds. “What does that mean for your prognosis?”

Dad shrugs. “Don’t be selfish, Logan. You don’t want your old man suffering, do you?”

“No. Of course not. I want you to do what’s best for you,” I hear myself say. “I just want to know what to expect.”

“Means I’m going to give your brother a piece of my mind sooner than expected.”

Mom chokes. Dad pounds on her back, and she sputters lettuce all over the table. My fork clatters to the floor. Yvette rushes in, a concerned expression on her face, but Dad waves her away.

“What? I’m telling you like it is,” Dad snaps. “I’m not dancing around this shit, even with you, Lorraine. Zach’s in for a reunion.”

Dad isn’t a nice guy. He’s rude. He has a superiority complex and a nasty temper. He flies off the handle all too regularly.

My father looks out for himself and himself only, and if that requires stepping on toes or offending, he doesn’t hesitate.

But Dad doesn’t go out of his way to hurt others. He’s never been this malicious, and he’s ~never~ used Zach as ammunition.

~Could it be the tumor~? I wonder.

I read online that glioblastoma patients often experience personality changes. I saw a couple of stories about family members who developed mean streaks at the ends of their lives.

Is this what’s happening with Dad? Have I lost him already? The thought sends tears to my eyes.

“Don’t fucking tell me you’re crying, Logan.”

I swallow. I don’t know what to say. I’m not crying, but I’m barely holding on. I miss Zach so much my entire body aches.

And Dad is dying. The cancer already took hold. I want to storm away, but time with Dad is limited. It would be wrong to waste a minute.

“Pull yourself together,” Dad snarls. “What Zachary did was shameful enough. I don’t need—”

“Enough!” I roar. The tears are gone now. I’m fucking furious. “He was your son. How could you—”

“He stopped being my son the day he—”

I know what Dad’s going to say, and I refuse to give him the chance. “Fuck you,” I interrupt.

Too full of hate to do anything else, I lift the salad bowl and whip it at the wall. Glass and lettuce and croutons explode as I stalk out of the room.

I have one foot out the front door when I remember Mom. I can’t leave her with him. She’ll be his next target.

I storm back into the dining room and see Mom kneeling by the wall where my bowl exploded, cleaning up salad and pieces of glass with her bare hands. Dad’s gone.

“Mom,” I call. She doesn’t hear. “Mom!” I shout.

When she turns around, I see the bloody wounds in her hands. She doesn’t seem to notice them. She’s scraping the floor, searching for shards of porcelain.

“Mom, stop!” I pry the pieces from her hands. They slice into my own, but I don’t care. I won’t let Mom hurt herself because I can’t control my rage.

Yvette enters quietly. “I’ll get her bandaged up.” She rests a broom against the wall. “Don’t worry about cleaning, Logan. I’ll take care of it after.”

“Thanks, Yvette, but I got it.”

Yvette nods and coaxes Mom onto her feet and out of the room. I sweep the glass and lettuce into a pile on the floor.

When nothing but streaks of dressing is left, I wander out in a daze, trying to remember where the mop is stored. The hall closet, maybe?

I freeze a few steps into the hallway. The unmistakable sound of sobs echoes from inside Dad’s office, which is right across from the goddamn closet.

Dad’s selfishness is hereditary; this proves it. ~Yvette~ did ~offer to help clean~, I think as I spin on my heel and stalk outside before Dad notices me.