Page 44 of The Best Kind of Bad

Or laying in a nursing home on hospice.

The drive back to Lincoln gives me plenty of time to think about life and fairness. Or lack of it.

I hesitate in the doorway to my dad’s room, hit again, with how wrong it all seems.

I passed three ninety-year-olds and one centenarian on my way through the nursing home hallway.

My dad doesn’t belong in here. His hair is still golden brown, for Pete’s sake. A familiar mix of anger and frustration flare in my chest. He drank himself here. No question about it. The liquor might have ruined his body, but my mom’s death broke his heart. His will to live left with her.

I want to rail on him for being so selfish, to ask why I wasn’t worth sticking around for. But, for better or worse, I love the man. And I’ve come to accept him where he is.

It’s not as though I have a choice.

He’s dying. Not today, they say. Or tomorrow.

But the doctors made it clear he’s on a one-way street.

A nurse sits at his side, reading to him fromHitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. She notices his gaze stray and pauses her reading. My heart squeezes painfully with gratitude for this nurse. For all the hospice nurses. I’m not sure where that wellspring of compassion comes from, but I am beyond grateful to them. I can’t be here all the time and knowing he’s being cared for by people with big hearts is such a relief.

She gives me a quiet smile and excuses herself from the room.

I turn back to dad, trying to imbue my demeanor with brisk, cheerful energy. Giving him a quick hug, I can’t help but notice how thin and small my once larger-than-life father looks.

Whipping out the bluetooth speaker I bought him, I start looking for a place to plug it in.

“How come you’re not wearing overalls?” Dad asks, his voice raspy.

I hand him a glass of water. “Overalls?”

“You’re a farm girl now, aren’t you?”

“Hardly.” I smile.

“Oh, but you are. It’s in the blood, Sunny. I think your mother spent her entire life trying to pretend she wasn’t a farm girl. But all it took was one Dolly Parton song on the radio and she was toast.”

I settle in the vinyl-covered chair by his bedside. “I’ve been going through Uncle Gus’s attic. Found her stuff from high school.”

“Oh yeah?” Dad’s lips pull into a weak grin. “What secrets have you unearthed?”

“All kinds.” I sit forward, livened by the topic. “Did you know she was in the homecoming court?”

Dad’s eyebrows fly up. “Your mother?”

“Yes. And she was a cheerleader.”

“The same woman who said mascara was glorified bat shit?”

“The very same.”

Dad grins. “Well, what do you know?”

I lean on his bed, propping my chin in my hand. “She ever talk about her high school days?”

“She didn’t like to.” Dad shakes his head. “I just knew she hated it. She had a hard time watching you go through high school.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to bear that burden. She was always worried she was projecting on you.”

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