Page 5 of Embers

I stare blankly at the muscles rippling in his arms as he pumps the water, wishing life hadn’t forced me so close to this hard, heartless man. It might have been natural to get to know him better and maybe even like him after living here with him and Derek for so many months, but I don’t.

Cal still feels like a stranger to me. One I prefer to keep his distance. I’m glad that he’s gone from the cabin so often even though it leaves me with all the chores to do. I’d rather be on my own, taking care of Derek, than be in close quarters with Cal.

“How’s he doin’?” Cal asks without looking at me.

I take a breath and let it out. “The same. He’s not going to get better.”

“I know.”

I do search his face, but I can’t see any sign that this bothers him. His own son. Dying in front of his eyes.

I’ve fallen into a slump of depression lately—so deep that I can barely generate strong emotion of any kind. But for some reason, looking at his tense, motionless face makes me so angry I can’t hold it back.

“Do you even care?”

He blinks and turns his head, clearly surprised by the angry question. We talk, of course. Go over practical matters or reply to each other’s requests. But we don’t have real conversations, and he hasn’t heard any sort of real emotion from me in a long time.

I’m not sure where it’s even coming from right now.

“Do you even care that he’s dying?”

“Caring ’bout it won’t change anything,” he tells me gruffly. “Nothing I can do to save him. I’ve hunted all over Kentucky and into Tennessee and West Virginia, and I can’t find antibiotics for him. No one has them anymore.”

“I know that.” I actually didn’t know he’d been searching all this time, and it makes me feel better. Like I’m not the only person in the world who will miss Derek when he’s gone. “But caring about it might changeyou. He’s your son. He doesn’t have much time left.”

Cal has stopped pumping. He stares down at the water in the container. He doesn’t say anything. Just takes a couple of shaky breaths.

And for the first time, I can see that this man actually possesses a heart. A heart that’s hurting right now. Maybe even as much as mine is.

My voice is softer as I say, “Youdocare.”

“Don’t matter if I do. Nothin’ for me to do.”

“You can go inside and sit down next to his bed and talk to him. Make sure he knows you’re there for him. That’s going to matter to him, and it’s all we have left.” My eyes burn slightly even though I didn’t think I could cry anymore.

Cal takes another breath. Then he nods and walks away. He leaves the water container at the pump.

I finish filling it and carry it in. When I get inside, I see that Cal listened to me even though most of the time he barely acknowledges my existence. He’s folded himself into the small chair where I’ve been sitting beside the one decent bed in the house.

He isn’t saying anything, but he’s reached out toward Derek.

As I get closer, I see it.

He’s holding his son’s hand.

* * *

Three weeks later, Cal and I are standing over Derek’s grave.

He died this morning. Yesterday he drifted into restless unconsciousness and never opened his eyes again.

On one of his trips, Cal somehow found a coffin. A nice one of dark, polished wood with a silk lining. We cleaned Derek up as best we could and laid him inside. He looked like a sleeping boy as we closed the lid.

Cal rigged up a rope to lower the coffin into a hole he dug out back earlier. Now there’s nothing to do but say a few words and fill in the hole.

I’m not crying. I’m not… anything. Just tired and numb. It feels like I’ve done all the grieving I can do over the past six months, and now there’s nothing left.

Cal is tense and silent beside me. Maybe he feels the way I do. I’m sure he loved his son as much as the man is capable of. He did do better for the past few weeks in sitting by Derek, talking to him some, letting him know he was there.

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