Read More Than Friends for Free Online Page B

asked.
    “Sure.”
    He walked toward the room, stopping when she touched his arm. “What?”
    Her brown eyes studied him. “There’s a lot of tubes and machines. It looks worse than it is. He probably won’t wake up until tomorrow.”
    “I want to see him.”
    She nodded.
    Chase walked past her and entered the room. Machines hovered over the bed, electronic guardians making sure his father remained in this world. He’d expected the array, but it was still shocking. To the left a metal stand supported an IV drip. A heart monitor screen showed the fragile beat with a fluctuating red line. To the right, a large beige machine, about half the size of a washer, fed tubes leading to his father’s mouth.
    “What is that?” he asked softly, pointing to the rectangular piece of equipment.
    “The ventilator. It helps him breath. We should be able to take it out in a couple of days.”
    Chase nodded, then frowned. “There’s no sound.”
    “I know. The new machines are very quiet. You can see his chest moving, though.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll be at the station. Push the call button if you need anything.”
    “Thanks.”
    He wanted to ask her to stay with him, but knew there were other patients requiring her care. Besides, he had to face his father sooner or later. Ignoring the tightening in his chest, he forced himself to study the draped body on the bed.
    Once-thick graying hair seemed to have thinned over the years. Individual strands lay limply over his scalp. His father’s strong face retained the planes and hollows he saw in his own mirror every morning, but the skin itself was ashen. His eyes were closed, but Chase knew the irises would still be the color of steel. It was the only thing that had set them apart. His eyes were brown, like his mother’s.
    Lowering his gaze, he saw his father had lost weight. Arms, once strong and tan, had withered until the outline of the bones was clearly visible. Powerful hands had shrunk to claws, the tips of the fingers appeared faintly blue.
    Despite his reading about heart attacks during his trip across country, despite Jenny’s comments and Terry’s warning, he felt as if the man on the bed was a stranger. It couldn’t be
his
father. William Jackson wouldn’t let his own body get away with this. He’d fight any illness, conquer it, stomp it into the ground.
    Chase looked around and caught sight of a plastic chair in the corner. He carried it next to the bed and sat down.
    “I’m here,” he whispered. “It’s Chase. Your son.”
    There was no response.
    “Dad?”
    Again silence.
    Chase stared at the hand closest to him. He should touch his father—offer tangible comfort. They were family.
    Sure, he thought bitterly. Warm and loving relatives. That was why his father had never bothered to write back, had never called. Who was he kidding? He was here out of obligation and when the obligation had been fulfilled, he’d leave.
    Chase remembered the first couple of years on his own. Working summers at the mill hadn’t prepared him for being eighteen and alone in a strange place. In his brief letters, he’d hinted at the fear and difficulty, hoping his father would unbend enough to call him home. The silence had hurt more than the accusations. In the end, he’d stopped caring and Harrisville had ceased to be home.
    He leaned forward and picked up his father’s hand. The skin felt clammy, like a wet fish. He held on loosely. “I came back,” he said quietly. “I came back as soon as I heard.”
    The fingers he held moved slightly, as if in acknowledgment. “Yes,” he said, a little louder. “You’re going to get well. The mill needs you. You don’t want the union running things, do you?” The hand went limp in his grasp, then slipped back to the bed.
    “Dad?”
    Chase wasn’t sure how long he sat listening to the silence, watching the slow rise and fall of his father’s chest. No doubt visits were limited, but Terry never asked him to leave. A