Cerise Harvey is a twenty-three year old hopeless romantic and over achiever, following closely in the shadows of her father, Michael Harvey- top criminal defense attorney of New York, legacy. With big shoes to fill, she's always gone above and beyo...
"This?" A young Brandon asked, picking up a rusty ratchet and turning towards his father for approval.
Carl nodded, holding out his dirty hand for Brandon to place the tool into. "It's called a ratchet,"
"A ratchet," Brandon repeated with admiration, stepping back as he watched his father work on a part for a plane.
Brandon used the plastic spoon to scrape food off his fathers chin, gently spooning it back into his mouth. He watched as his father chewed slowly, his weary brown eyes glossed over as he stared straight ahead blankly— a painful silence blanketing the hospice room. There was no point in trying to start a conversation with his father as Carl had stopped speaking and no longer recognized his own son— he probably didn't even realize he was eating at the moment.
Brandon often wondered what was going on in his fathers head, if anything at all; wondering how he was feeling or if he even knew that his own body was slowly shutting down or if he missed his wife and son.
Brandon stood firm on his word, promising to put his father in a home that would be able to provide better care as his mother was no longer able to handle caring for herself and her husband. But the move to an assisted living home was short lived as Carl began losing control of his own autonomic functions and was placed into hospice— estimated to only have a few more months left in him.
This had caused a ripple in the relationship between mother and son, baring the heavy weight of devastation and loss. All the two seemed to do these days was disagree and argue over proper end of life care for the man they both love. But Brandon knew it had to be done because his mother would never make the decision on her own. Lorraine would fight tooth and nail to keep her husband home.
"What are you doing? Where's the nurse?"
Brandon looked over his shoulder, the stout silhouette of a woman in his peripheral but he didn't have to look to know it was his mom— her tone distal yet frantic.
He looked around the hospital-esque room before looking back at his mother. "She stepped out," Brandon responded flatly, turning back to his father.
"You're not to feed him unsupervised because he can choke— what if he choked?" Lorraine fussed.
Brandon clenched his jaw some, wiping his fathers mouth with a napkin. "It's apple sauce," he informed dryly. "He's not just your husband, he's my father too— remember?"
Lorraine closed her mouth, exchanging her frustration for a somber sigh watching her sons tall stature rise from the seat beside her husband, a hard expression on his face. "I'm sorry," She said quietly as he grabbed his suit jacket off the bed, slipping his arms into the tailored coat.
"You're leaving already?" Lorraine asked, a sadness washing over her as she watched her son gather his belongings. Never in a million years did she foresee her family falling apart like this.
Not only was she watching her husband die slowly, but she was losing her only child as well.
"I have business to handle," Brandon said blandly without giving her a second glance, letting the door close softly behind him.
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