Page 9 of Dangerous Silence
It was an invasion.
“Give him some dignity?” I asked, my tone incredulous. “You want me to give him some dignity?”
“Leave him alone,” he said. “Let him die the death he wants.”
My heart ripped open at those words. The death. The deathhewants. No—screw that. And screw that ogre for telling me what to do. For thinking he knows what my dad wants.
“Go screw yourself homeboy,” I hissed.
“Demi,” Dad said, slightly louder than before. And that single word broke my heart all over again. Dad couldn’t tell me to behave. That’s all he had: my name. My nose was filled with snot; I could barely breathe. But I wouldn’t let myself cry. Not yet.
“I’m not leaving,” I said.
“You are leaving with me,” the ogre said.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Demi,” Dad said again. He shifted his body, lifting his chin to the ogre. “Thank you.”
The ogre nodded, then backed away, disappearing down the hall. How was that ogre walking through the house like he knew where everything was? Like he owned the place? It was my house. The houseIgrew up in.
It was easier to be mad at a stranger than it was to face what was actually going on. But I wasn’t afraid of death. The ogre might have been afraid to watch a loved one die, but I wasn’t going to leave my dad’s side. I would have expected my dad to do the same for me. You couldn’t be afraid to look at someone when they were at their worst; Dad had taught me that.
The people from the kitchen and living room said their goodbyes, and Dad lifted a finger to acknowledge them. I faced my dad, never turning to look at the strangers. In the end, it was Dad, the nurse, the ogre hidden in one of the bedrooms, and me.
“He’ll provide for you,” Dad said. He pointed toward the hallway.
“The ogre?”
“That ogre is named Axe.”
The name sent a wave of shock through me. Axe?ThatAxe? The son he had never had? The one I grew up hearing stories about? Dad was always clunky on the details of teaching him to work in the butcher shop. But I knew that Axe went on to do the family business, instead of working in Dad’s shop. That was him?
“Provide for me?” I repeated. “This isn’t the seventeenth century, Dad. We don’t do dowries anymore.”
“You need to marry him.”
“What? Why?”
“So that I know you’re safe. I want to rest easy, Demi. Can you—” A coughing spell broke through his body, contorting him in painful twists. Suddenly, it felt like there were millions of people packed into that room, his choking sounds taking up all of that space, when in reality, it was empty. Once he could breathe again, he looked at me. “Can you do that for me?”
An acrid scent came to my nose, coming from Dad, like urine and rubbing alcohol and sour fruit. I shook my head. I wasn’t going to marry a man I didn’t know.
But what difference did it make if I lied? If I told Dad that I would? Maybe it was selfish of me to hold onto that right to choose my partner when this was my dad’s one last request. But if Dad could slip to the other side, believing that lie, then maybe it would be easier for him.
I nodded, changing my response. “I will, Dad,” I said.
His eyes closed. A minute passed. He was letting himself rest now. Each wheezing breath seemed to take so much energy from him.
“You were my brightest joy,” he said.
I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. They crashed onto our hands, wetting us both. How could he say those words now, when I had longed to hear them, or anything resembling them, for so long? When Mom died, we only had each other. You would think that her death would have made Dad kinder, but it was the opposite. He was strict, not letting anything slide. Not a single B on a test. Not a muttered curse word. Not a single bottle of temporary dye.
How could I be his brightest joy, when I could never live up to his standards? And how could I be angry, when he was dying?
I wiped my nose on my sleeve, leaving a trail of shiny snot. Dad’s breathing shifted. The wheezing quieted, almost as if his body was giving him a break. But then it started up again, harder, deeper than before, gasping. He let out a wail, and the sound was desperate. It startled me. I flinched back, waiting for it to stop. Then I was angry at myself for my reaction. I had to be strong. Dad needed me to be strong. I grabbed his hand.
Every once in a while, this happened. His breathing quieted, then the gasping started, and he wailed so loud that I held my breath. The nurse took a seat on the couch, sitting to the side. Waiting for him. I knew it was time. I thought about my homework. About my college lectures. About Axe. Anything to keep my focus away from Dad’s breathing. That rasping gasp, every molecule of air squeezing out of his chest in a drawn-out whoosh. It made my skin crawl, made my heart ache.
