The Art of Being a F*ck Up

38. The Unknown

I've never actually seen anyone die. Like, I've seen dead people at funerals and stuff, but watching it happen is something so totally different. It's surreal. Bill lays completely still in the hospital bed—out of place in this home—glossy eyes directed towards a TV that doesn't even have any sound. I can't quite see his chest moving, and I'd be scared he wasn't getting enough oxygen, except he has one of those tube things in his nose. He hasn't moved in nearly two hours either, but when he does he grimaces in pain. One of the workers came in not too long ago to give him something that'll make the rest of his time here just a bit easier.

We're told he won't make it through another night, that he could even go in the next few hours, it's nothing but a waiting game now. I've cried about it, and said all my goodbyes, so all I can do is sit here with him and keep him company until the end arrives. My dad's here too, somewhere, but things have deteriorated so much that we're sort of taking turns sitting with my uncle. Today is a huge test to my courage, my heart weighs so incredibly heavy to know how much I'm about to lose all at once.

I feel a little guilty stealing glances at my phone, still half expecting a call or a text or something from Jonah before he gets on that plane, but time's running out for that too. I'm not even sure what that text might look like when we already hashed it all out last night, but I can't stop myself from being stupidly hopeful. With a quiet sigh I settle back into my chair, putting my phone away.

"Got somewhere to be?" Bill speaks suddenly, a startling noise despite how decrepit his voice sounds. For a moment I sit there stunned, not comprehending what he means, but then he turns his head my way. "You've been staring at that damn screen all day, if I'm not dying fast enough just tell me."

"Don't joke like that, it's not funny." Obviously I hadn't been as covert as I thought, and I can appreciate that poking fun at his prognosis must make it seem less scary, but it's not a joke to me.

"It's a little funny," he tries to smile, but he can't find the strength. Instead he goes back to being quiet, waiting just long enough that I start to believe my cover is safe before he speaks again. "Is it that guy friend of yours, Jonah?"

"Something like that," I admit, filled with too much adoration to lie to a dying man. He's got plenty of his own to worry about, but when I fail to give him any more of the story he only continues to stare at me until I explain. "He's flying out to New York today, he plans to live over there for a while. Or for good, I don't know."

"That's rough, I'm sorry, kid." Maybe he just likes having something other than the thought of his death to keep him occupied, but Bill seems to think about it seriously for a minute or two before he goes back to looking at the silent TV. "You know what I really think about now that I'm about to die? Anna."

"Your first wife?"

"Yeah," another smile, this one sly, tries to creep across his lips, "she had a set on her, boy I could tell you. She was a real good artist too—she painted—she was always working on something new whenever I'd come home from work. Never finished anything the whole time we were married though, and right up towards the end there she just gave up altogether. It's a shame."

"Well, you never know, maybe she's still painting wherever she is." I haven't heard a lot of stories about Bill's past, mostly because of how guarded he is and how little he talks about it. Her picture hangs up in his office next to mine though, and hearing about it now feels odd, like getting this glimpse into his history.

"She's dead, she passed on a few years back." Bill stops for a long moment, and I finally start to realize how much like me he really is. I think maybe he's the kind of person capable of profound love too, that maybe the reason he doesn't talk a lot about himself or his past is because he feels it so deeply, and he's not allowed to let that show—not coming from where we come from. But I'm not his parents, and I'm not my dad, so he doesn't have to be so hard with me. He goes on, "her sister sent me a few of the unfinished paintings she'd started when we were married."