Chapter 22

VIVIANNE

It isn’t easy planning a funeral for someone who is still alive—for someone who’s going to die but hasn’t yet. It feels almost wrong. But in a strange way, it helps ease my mind.

During the day, I stay at Mom’s—visiting, cleaning, taking care of whatever needs to be done. At night, I return to the hotel with Liam and plan for whatever comes next.

I’ll have to remember to thank him when we get back. He’s been by my side through every moment of this, and honestly, I’m not sure I could get through it without him to lean on.

Doc gave me pamphlets for local funeral homes, along with a few about breast cancer. Momma is getting worse by the day. Her breathing falters more and more.

Liam works—either at the house or back in the room. The only time he steps away is when I need him for something—anything at all.

I stand in the doorway, watching him.

He looks at me from beneath his dark lashes, his features softening. He reaches out a hand, motioning for me to come closer.

I take the few steps toward him, his hand resting on my hip as he shifts and guides me into his lap. I curl into him, his chin on my head.

I pull away, just enough to look at him. “Thank you,” my voice is barely above a whisper.

His hand moves up, cupping my cheek, his eyes staring into mine, something strange flickering in them.

We’ve been here almost a week now. Doc has checked in twice—both times leaving with his tail tucked. I think he feels guilty for not being able to help.

But it’s not his fault.

Momma never went to her checkups. She didn’t take care of herself the way she should have.

But really, no one’s to blame. No one except the cancer.

Becca’s still in school, so she’s only around in the evenings. Liam and I try to keep things normal for her, but it’s not working—not as well as I’d hoped.

Eventually, I have to call reinforcements, as much as I’ve hoped to avoid it.

The phone rings three times before the other line picks up. There’s a long pause, and then he speaks.

“Hello?” His voice is just like I remember—strong, thick. It sends a shiver through me, ice running through my veins.

“Dad. Mom’s—Mom’s sick.”

Another long pause. Then a faint chuckle.

“What’d she get herself into now?”

“Cancer.”

I hang up, my stomach twisting, threatening to pitch its contents.

The phone rings. I stare at it but let it go. I shouldn’t have called. It was a bad idea from the start.

***

Three days later, I’m sitting with Momma, asking her questions—listening to whatever she has the strength to say between naps, which is most of the time now.

She shivers and tries to drag the blanket higher. I help her, then dampen her lips and wipe her forehead with a cool rag.

While she rests, I listen to her breathing and work on my binder of plans. I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I told my siblings I’d handle it—and I will.

As more and more things come out of the woodwork, I’m realizing just how much this is going to cost. Thank God I took this job. Who knew memorial services could be so expensive?

A soft knock sounds at the door. It opens just enough for me to see Liam.

“Someone’s at the door.” His tone is clipped.

I stand, carry my binder into the living room, and set it on the table before opening the door fully.

My first thought is that he looks so much older.

His dark brown hair is streaked with gray. It’s cut short now—neater—though it looks like he’s run his hands through it a few times. It used to hang past his shoulders, always messy.

My own eyes stare back at me—big, round, and blue. There’s a slight crook in his nose I don’t remember, but it suits him. His face is thinner now, sharper around the edges.

“Dad?” My arm drops to my side, his face shocking my system.

“Hey, um…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Is—is your mom okay?”

I can’t speak. Can’t move.

The man actually showed up. I didn’t think he had the gall. Yet here he is.

Liam’s hand finds my hip, pulling me into him. With his other hand, he opens the door wider and waves him inside.

“She’s still alive,” I say, “but it doesn’t look very good.”

Liam glances at me, waiting for a sign. I give him one—a small, clear look. He sees it. He knows.

“She’s in here,” he says, leading us down the hall.

I have the strangest urge to run. To just go and never stop. To move until my legs give out and the world disappears behind me.

Liam drops his hand from my waist, leaving a cold emptiness in its place. I wish he’d kept it there.

In the bedroom, Momma stirs uncomfortably beneath the blankets. I watch as Dad’s hand flies to his mouth in a gasp.

He crosses the room slowly, pulling the chair closer and lowering himself into it. He reaches for her hand like it’s the only thing holding him up.

“Oh, Jellybean,” he whispers, using that old name he always called her—usually only on the good days. His voice catches, thick with emotion, like the name itself is clogging his throat.

I never knew why he called her that, but hearing it now feels heavy.

He leans forward, head bowed, holding on like she’s slipping through his fingers.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, choked and shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll give you some privacy,” I say, peeling myself off the wall and slipping out of the room.

Liam follows right behind me.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his hand finding mine again. It sends a jolt through me—steadying and electric all at once.

I take a breath, but it catches halfway. “That’s my dad,” I say, the words barely making it out. I don’t even know what I mean by them—just that they carry too much history.

I look up at Liam, eyes wet and searching, needing him more than I can say. And somehow, he knows.

He doesn’t speak. He just steps closer and pulls me into him—arms wrapping around my shoulders, strong and sure, like he’s holding me together with sheer will.

I let myself melt into him. Just for a second. Just long enough to know what it feels like to be safe.

His chin rests against my temple. I feel his breath in my hair.

Then, slowly, I pull back, just enough to see his face.

His hands stay on me, gentle. His eyes search mine—unflinching—as if asking for permission without words.

My breath hitches.

He leans in slowly, eyes still locked with mine. And then, he drops a soft kiss to my mouth—barely there, but enough to light something deep in my chest.

He lingers for a bit, then kisses the tear from my cheek.

I close my eyes, letting it happen. Letting myself need him.

“You don’t always have to be so strong, Viv. It’s okay to fall apart.”

He was right. And wrong.

I have to be strong. I’ve always had to be.

Marcus turned out okay because Dad thought the world of him. But when Momma got pregnant with me, they weren’t doing so well. He took his frustrations out on her. And when I was old enough, he started hitting me too.

When Rebecca came along, Marcus was old enough to do something about it.

I was ten the last time he hit me.

He left a few years later—once he found a younger, flashier model.

That man—my father—sits in the bedroom now, a ghost of the person I remember, with my dying mother.

I have to be strong. If not for myself, then for Rebecca.

“Vivianne.”

I hear his frantic call from the bedroom

I run to the door.

Momma is wheezing, her breathing ragged and shallow.

Doc’s pamphlets didn’t mention this part. But Google did.

I’m as prepared as I can be.

I kneel at her side and press a cool rag to her forehead. I start to sing ~You Are My Sunshine~—soft and shaky—the same way she used to sing it for me when I was sick.

Her breathing begins to even out, but the wheeze lingers, high and thin.

I dip the rag back into the water, nearly spilling the bowl.

I reach for her hand.

She squeezes once.

Then her fingers go slack.

The wheezing stops with a long, final exhale.

And nothing.

Just silence.

The world holds its breath with me.

And my heart splits wide open, the pain too big for my body to hold.