Page 24 of I Almost Do

I hate all that psychoanalysis shit. When I was a kid, I had to go to a therapist to talk about my father after he murdered my mother. And all those people do is rip pieces out of you and put them on display, like some kind of mental autopsy.

Instead of butterflying my lungs, they want to rip out my nerves and heart and call them trauma. But I don't sit around and cry about feelings.

Sometimes anger is productive. Sometimes it's what keeps us from sinking into all that shit we would drown in otherwise.

Marcus has asked me to take care of Clarissa, to be there and protect her the way he would have. He wouldn't have ever had to ask. There is nothing that will stop me from doing it. She is not going to be alone and hurt and terrified. No one is touching her. No one is harming her. No one.

Clarissa is coping better than I am, at least on the surface.

She talks kindly to the nurses and the doctors. She patiently coaxes Marcus to sip just a little more soup. She tidies up around him and helps him with sponge baths. She teases him and reminisces. She falls asleep holding his hand in the chair next to his bed. And sometimes she doesn't wake up when I touch her shoulder, so I carry her up to her bed. Then I return to take her place.

I sit with Marcus and hold his hand. When he's asleep, and we're alone, I let the angry tears fall. And when he's awake, I make the promises: I will stand in his shoes. I will protect her. I will be a man who does not hurt and does not leave.

I always knew Clarissa was sweet and good-natured. What I didn't know was that she has a hell of a backbone. She has mental fortitude. I know she wants to cry, and she does, often. But she doesn't want to do it where Marcus can see. So she cries in the bathroom, then washes her face off and walks back into that study with a smile on her face. And she makes him laugh, even through the pain. His and hers.

They're both laughing now as I peek inside with a knock on the doorframe. Marcus is gray and drawn. So thin he's skeletal. But he's laughing with a weak wheeze. Clarissa is grinning. And propped in Marcus's arm is a large pink stuffed toy.

Marcus lifts his free arm, the one with the IV taped to the back of his hand, and gestures weakly for me to come inside.

"Clare thinks I need a little buddy to hug. What do you think?" His eyes crinkle at the corners.

I smile because Marcus wants me to and say, "Pink is your color."

He closes his eyes, but he smiles in return. "I see… the appeal of your Squishmallow, Clare Bear. Very comfy."

"I told you so."

He doesn't open his eyes, his breathing shallow. "Clare." He reaches for her, letting the pillow toy fall away.

She takes his hand, and I move to stand behind her, my hands cupping her shoulders. "I'm here, Daddy."

"You're going to be okay, honey. You're so strong. So smart."

"Yes I am. I get that from you."

His head bobs in a shallow nod. "You bet you do." He tries to catch his breath, then says, "And you got that sweet heart from your mom. We're both… so proud of you."

Clare chokes back a sob, shuddering. I feel it under my hands, but she doesn't make a sound. Doesn't let Marcus hear.

She squeezes his hand gently and brushes the thin strands of his hair from his forehead. "I'm proud of you, too, Daddy," she says, her voice just an octave higher than it should be. "I don't know if I ever said that to you. You know I love you, but I don't think I ever told you how proud I am of you. And there hasn't been a single moment of my life when I didn't know how much you loved me."

He bobs his head ever so slightly. "That's how it's supposed to be."

Marcus surprises me when he opens his eyes and focuses on me. "I love you, too, son. Proud of you. I should have told you that."

I can't. I can't. I can't.

This man has been my friend, but he has also been my father. Better than my father. His love and pride are the most important words I've ever heard in my life. And I can't fucking bear to hear them like this, when it means he knows he's leaving.

I force the words past my closed-off throat. "I love you, too, Marcus."

He closes his eyes again. "I chose you for my Clare Bear. Found someone good enough for her." His small smile is a little smug. "I'd hoped I'd have more time. That she'd be a little older. That you two would figure it out on your own. But this… works."

"I don't understand."

"Saw you… that first time… in the lobby. Dolores Kirby dropped a big box… of paper. She has arthritis… but great at her job. Papers made… a huge mess. Five people just stood there, but you… came through those doors… and helped her."

"I don't remember that," I admit.

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