Tragedy of the Gimbles

II

"Why?" the old man asked bluntly. "It's not like that stuff will help me. Not at this point, anyway."

"Because," Nancy explained, patience shining between her words, "the doctor thinks you might still pull through." She looked down bashfully, hand clenched around the bottle of medicine. "And besides," she said quietly, "we're not quite ready to let you go."

At Lionel Gimble's bedside, her face was the very picture of grief, of a daughter trying desperately to hold onto her loving father. Her face was delicate, and yet she showed a masked sort of grief through her disheveled red hair and faintly trembling hands. She's such a wonderful actress, James thought to himself.

He tried to mimic her sincerity, reaching down and patting the old man on the shoulder. Lionel was his father too, of course, but James rarely called him that anymore. "She's right. Even if it's just a few extra minutes, we want to make sure to spend as much time as possible with you. Before... you know."

The old man nodded gently, stubbornly giving way before the combined charms of his children. He grunted as he sat up further against the mess of pillows behind him, keeping one hand on the thick red blanket he lay under. "Alright, then. If it'll make you two quit crying over me... grab my cup there, would you Tommy?"

Thomas nodded at him silently from where he sat, in the leather armchair in the room's corner. When James had first entered the room, he hadn't missed the fact that the old man had always used that as his reading chair, despite there being a second chair on the opposite wall. Thomas rose from the chair and walked to the dresser on the far wall, where Nancy had placed the cup after giving their father his last dose of medication.

There was a tall pitcher of water next to the cup, also placed by Nancy. Thomas took it by the handle and began to pour water into the cup. Nancy recognized her cue. "I saw a squirrel today, father," she said tenderly. The old man turned to look at her as she talked. "I couldn't help but remember when James found that squirrel with the broken leg. We must have been, oh, nine and six years old?"

James smiled along, resisting the urge to look behind him at what Thomas was doing. Keep him distracted, he reminded himself. That's your job right now.

"Yes," he concurred, "and we begged father to let us tend to it."

"Except you didn't," the old man responded. "You ended up feeding it a chocolate bar. As I recall, I was forced to tell you that it left during the night, feeling fit and fine and whatnot. It was a few years before one of you finally figured it out."

"It was Nancy," Thomas commented from the dresser. "I remember, because James started crying when she told him the squirrel died." James winced as the old man's attention began to shift back towards his younger son. Stick to your job, Thomas. Just let us handle him. He had debated including Thomas in their plan in the first place. But what the man lacked in tact he made up for in perceptiveness. If we didn't let him in, he would have figured it out anyways.

"Let's stop all this morbid talk," Nancy said suddenly, laying her charms over their father once again. "I should never have brought it up." James forced himself to relax as the old man's eyes left the dresser again. Hopefully, he hadn't noticed Thomas mixing the powder into his water.

"You're right," James said. "Let's talk about something lighter." He kept his smile as he struggled to think of something else to say. Luckily, before the silence got awkward, Thomas approached the bed, cup in hand.

"Here you go, dad," he said, handing the cup to the old man. Their father grunted in acknowledgment, and took the pills from Nancy's outstretched hand. "Remember, don't die on us quite yet. After all," Thomas smiled sickly, "you still have so much to give."