Page 54 of Over My Dead Boss
After almost three hours of reading, I have reached the last entry. It is unfinished. “Dear Phoenix, your mother has urged me to give you my diaries for quite a while now. I think she is right. I know it won’t make up for lost time, but maybe it can help us grow closer. It’s been a couple of months since I have seen you because of work, and that needs to change. Maybe it’s time for me to take a step back, to be with my family, to learn how to twerk to one day impress my grandchildren. Maybe we could even go on vacation and get matching tattoos together. I could get a phoenix on my back and you could get my face tattooed on your butt. Just something to think about. You could go with a lion if that’s more your style, of course.I would pay to see that tattoo,” I say and quickly add, “Sorry, that was just me.Iwouldn’t mind looking at the tattoo. I don’t think your dad would have wanted to see that. Anyway, uhh, yeah, that’s all. That was his last entry. I hope you’re good. In general, and after listening to this. If not, give me a call, or not. Totally up to you. Ok, byeeee.” I smash my face into dad’s blanket, trying to hide my shame. There’s no one there who could see me, but I still feel like an idiot. “Alright, remember, dad. This is between us, ok? Good, I appreciate your discretion.” I open my email app and start a draft:
Dear Phoenix,
I know you don’t think you can get through his notebook, so I thought maybe I could help. I recorded the last book for you, so you don’t have to read it yourself. It’ll be there whenever you feel ready.
Kind regards,
Olivia
I hit send, bury my head in the blanket once again, then re-open the email app.
Hey there,
Me again. Sorry to bother you. Just forgot to attach the file. Maybe next time, hire an assistant that’s a little less clumsy.
Sincerely,
Olivia
33
Ihide my phone and promise myself to not touch it for at least a year.
Sincerely.
Who signs an email to someone they’ve had mind-melting sex with just two days ago withSincerely?
The rest of the weekend passes without changes, which isn’t great, and while it means things haven’t gotten worse, we are running out of time. Mom and I take alternating shifts, staying by his side and getting some sleep at home. Thankfully, a bunch of my parent’s friends stop by to check up on him, as well as bringing us food. Come Monday morning, I call the office to let Isabella know about my situation. I only reach Verna, who promises to relay my message.
Sienna calls an hour later and I go for a walk to take the call while mom stays with dad. It’s a welcome distraction to talk about random things with my best friend who does her best to take my mind off things. Of course eventually we circle back to the inevitable: Phoenix Cyrus.
“So you actually broke up with him? How did you do it?” she asks carefully, clearly worried about me.
“To be honest, the last couple of days are a blur. I barely remember how I got here, but yes, I told him I didn’t want it to happen this way but that it would be best to end whatever we had. I mean, it was never going to last, so it makes sense, right? It wasn’t bad, though. We are both being adults about it, because that’s what you do when things can’t work out. Clear cuts, no hard feelings. It was nice while it lasted.” A silent tear travels down my cheek and I try to suppress a sob.
Sienna notices immediately, of course. “So you’re not crying because of him right now?”
“I’m not crying,” I ugly cry into the phone and sniff back my snot.
We talk for another half an hour. Unable to help any other way, Sienna distracts me by going off on a tangent about how people who enter a bus, while others are still exiting, should be thrown into prison for life, and about how hard it is to not look like the joker when trying to put on make-up in a moving vehicle. Eventually, we say goodbye and, through the smell of disinfectant, I trot back to my dad’s room. When I get there, my heart drops. As does my phone. A doctor and two nurses are standing around the bed.
This is it,I think.
He’s dead.
My mom covers her mouth with both hands, tears streaming down her face. I stagger over and finally see my dad.
Awake. His eyes open.
Thank god.
I’ve never felt more relief than at that moment.
The doctor removes the intubation tube and checks that dad gets enough air to breathe on his own. After making sure his reflexes, motor and cognitive skills are all intact, the doctor sighs deeply and turns to us. “So far, so good. We’ll do a lung scan and run some other tests, but he might have gotten very lucky today.”
“Nothing to do with luck, doc,” dad murmurs from behind, his voice weak and raspy. “Sheer power of will.”
“That,” the doc nods, “and the power of modern medicine.” His fingers tap against the machine next to the bed.
