Page 200 of Composed
The woman shakes her head, greying brown hair falling into her face. “He doesn’t have a wife, hon.”
“Oh.” My gut knots, my heart thudding against my chest. But that means… “I’m sorry, who are you? His girlfriend?”
A light laugh cuts through the blood rushing through my ears. “No. He doesn’t have one of them either, at least not one that’s shown up in the six months.”
“Right. Sorry, erm,” I clear my throat. “It’s just, I’m really confused. Who are you?”
She steps over the threshold and lingers on the top step. “I’m one of the community nurses.”
“And he needs that?”
She tilts her head. “Who are you?”
I weave my fingers together in the pocket and brush my thumb over the inked microphone. “I’m his daughter. Hendrix.”
Her mouth drops open.
A long, silent moment passes.
She snaps it shut, and steps back into the house, gesturing for me to come inside. “I didn’t know he had a daughter.”
“We haven’t spoken in a long time,” I explain.
She says nothing as she guides me through the house. Same magnolia walls, same oak furnishings in the hallway. She bypasses the lounge, straight into the kitchen, and stops at the dining room door. A trainer taps on the floor, once, then twice before she turns to me.
“I’m really sorry,” she says as she curls a hand around the handle and pushes.
The door releases with a click.
The sharp scent of antiseptic rushes my nose as it swings open. I hold my breath, a muscle jumping in my jaw. A bed sits in the centre of the room, replacing the old mahogany dining table I remember. Wires trail along the floor, disappearing under the bed.
A bedside table holds half-empty bottles of medication, tissues, and a clear jug of water. Soft blankets cover his still, ashen frame. The floor creaks as I inch forward.
“What’s wrong with him?” My voice barely breaks the quiet.
The nurse exhales behind me. “Advanced liver disease.”
I blink, a breath catching in my throat. “How long does he have?”
“At best, two months.”
I tilt my head, staring at the man in the bed.
He looks small where he was once terrifying.
“Is he lucid?”
“Sometimes,” she says. She steps beside me, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Not as much anymore. But he’s comfortable. No pain. That’s what matters now.”
I nod. I glance over the sparse room. “You said he doesn’t have a wife?”
There used to be flowers, and cherry-scented air. Broken glass too, screams and shouts. To the outside it was a perfect home, the interior told a different story.
I sigh.
A part of me wonders where she’s gone and if she’s finally happy with her life. A larger part of me knows that it’s not my business.
“No.” She shakes her head. “No wife. No family listed. We didn’t know he had one.”
