I remember the doctor’s mouth moving.
I remember Harrison asking intelligent questions.
I remember staring at a painting of a sailboat on the office wall and thinking someone should straighten it.
On the drive home, Harrison took my hand.
Neither of us spoke.
That night, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried into a towel so he would not hear me.
He heard me anyway.
He sat on the floor outside the door until I opened it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
As though dying were something he had done to me.
His children moved quickly.
Vivian took control of the doctors, medication schedules and visitors. She began sleeping at the hospital and answering questions before Harrison could speak.
Grant handled the company.
Lucas tried to keep the peace.
I spent every moment Harrison allowed beside him.
But as he grew weaker, Vivian became bolder.
One afternoon, she stopped me outside his hospital room.
