My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 57

57

SYDNEY AND I were taken by ambulance to Cape Fear Medical Center where we were x-rayed, probed, stitched up, smeared with ointment, and admitted for observation. They told me I had a broken ankle and sealed my left foot in a cast. The D.A. stopped by to tell me that all charges against me were being dropped. I also learned from him that Sam had been transported by helicopter to Duke University Medical Center and that David had been found alive, bound and gagged in another room of the barn, and had been rescued before the fire, but that Ashleigh didn't make it. They found her body in the other tank that had been sunk in the canal. He also said that although Scott had been severely wounded in the shootout, he was expected to live to stand trial.

After two days in the hospital, Sydney and I were released, but refused to go anywhere without each other. After getting a change of clothes and a bite to eat, we returned to the hospital around 4 p.m. that afternoon to spend some time with Martha. It was still touch and go for her, but the nurses said the doctors were encouraged by her most recent signs.

They told us that Dad didn't have long and Sydney stayed with Martha while I went in to see him. From the door, I could see that his skin had turned sallow. He was losing weight and his eyes appeared to have sunk deeper into his head. He sensed that I was there and when he opened his eyes, I was amazed to see a light actually coming from within them. They were glowing from the inside. It's something I'd never seen before nor seen anything like it since.

He raised his hand. "That you, Martha?"

"No, Dad. It's Richard."

I stepped in and let the door close behind me.

"I heard you were shot," he mumbled, his mouth tight and toothless.

"I'm fine."

"They called you a hero."

"They weren't there."

"You did good, son."

"Thanks, Dad."

His shriveled hand tightened into a fist that seemed so much smaller than I remembered. I laid my hand on it. It was cold like the sunfish Martha and I used to catch on worms that we dug up in the back yard when we were kids. His skin felt dry and rubbery—not at all real—like our relationship. I traced the veins on the back of his hand. Touch is important. A son needs a father's touch. I imagined what could have been, what should have been, what our lives might have been if things had gone differently that tragic night some thirty odd years ago when Uncle Charlie's brakes failed. Would Dad have thought more of me as my Uncle Gus? How much disappointment and pain had he endured? I squeezed his hand. It was hard and boney like the rest of him—no tenderness inside.

Shortly after 5 a.m., he opened his eyes and I saw that the light in them had gone out. He moved his hand away from mine, drew a deep breath, and as it slowly exhaled, the beep on the monitor changed to a solid tone.

And that was it. It was over.

AT HIS FUNERAL I stared at the casket and wished I could have gotten to know him better. Wished we'd had more time at the end. Wished I'd known the truth earlier. At the wake afterward, I smiled and nodded as friends and family politely recited their rehearsed phrases. "He did good by your mother," many said as if they'd called a meeting and prepared an official family response. I left the house before the plates were passed around and sat in the darkened hospital room with my sister—or rather my half-sister.

It didn't bother me to know there was no part of Gus in me, but I hated the fact that Martha and I were less related. There had always been some comfort in knowing that someone else in this world had the same genes as me and that they were still sane and functioning.