I'm going to see my son next month. He lives in Seattle. I'm going to drive up there and see him face to face. That's wonderful, Dorothy said. It's terrifying, but you drove through a blizzard to see your family.
I can drive to Seattle. Grizzly extended his hand to Walter. You're a tough old bastard. Don't ever forget that. Walter shook his hand, feeling the strength in Grizzly's grip.
You're not so bad yourself. Grizzly turned to Dorothy. Own. Instead of a handshake, he bent down and carefully hugged her. "You fight, Mrs.
Callahan. You fight as hard as you fought to get here. " "I will," Dorothy whispered. "For as long as I can. " The bikers climbed onto their vehicles. Engines roared to life, the sound echoing off the snow-covered houses. Matthew waved frantically.
The convoy pulled away, heading back toward the highway, back toward their lives. But they were different now, changed by two old people who'd refused to give up. As the sound of the engines faded, Thomas put his arm around his father's shoulders. Those are good people. The best, Walter agreed.
They went back inside. The house felt quieter without the biker's presence, but it was a comfortable quiet. The quiet of family. Dorothy was fading. Walter could see it.
The morning's excitement had drained her. He helped her back to the guest room, got her settled on the bed. Within minutes, she was asleep. Walter sat beside her, watching her breathe. Each breath a gift.
Each moment precious. Thomas appeared in the doorway. How is she tired but happy? Dad, I need to ask you something. Thomas came into the room, sat in the chair Walter had occupied last night.
How much time does she really have? Walter had been dreading this question. The doctors said weeks, but that was before the journey, before the hypothermia and the exhaustion. Now, he shook his head. I don't know.
Maybe days, maybe hours. Maybe she'll surprise us all and last another month. Thomas's face crumpled. I wasted so much time. Seven years I could have had with her and I threw it away because I was too proud to pick up the phone.
We all wasted time. You, me, your mother. We all chose pride over family. Walter looked at his sleeping wife. But we're here now.
We have today. That's more than we had yesterday. Is it enough? It has to be. They sat in silence for a while.
Then Thomas spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. Tell me about her, about mom, the stuff I don't know, the stuff from before I was born. So Walter told him about meeting Dorothy at a church social in 1967, about her terrible cooking when they first got married. She'd burned water somehow. About the miscarriage she'd had before Thomas was born, the grief that had nearly destroyed them both.
About how she'd held Walter together when he came back from Korea with nightmares that made him scream in his sleep. She never gave up on me. Walter said, "Even when I gave up on myself, even when the war made me into someone I didn't recognize, she held on and pulled me back. She did the same for me," Thomas said quietly. "When Sarah left when the divorce happened, mom was the one who kept me sane.
She'd call every Sunday, "Let me vent. Let me cry. " And then you two had that fight about the garage. And I was so angry at both of you that I cut her off, too. Cut off the one person who'd always been there for me. His voice broke.
God, Dad, what did I do? What we all do? You made a mistake, but you're fixing it now. Omay, or is it too late? Before Walter could answer, Dorothy's eyes opened.
It's never too late. Both men jumped. They thought she was asleep. Mom, we didn't mean to wake you. You didn't.
Dorothy's hand reached for Thomas. Come here, baby. Thomas moved to the bed, taking her hand. Dorothy pulled him down so she could see his face clearly. Listen to me, Thomas.
You made mistakes. We made mistakes. But love doesn't have a statute of limitations. It doesn't expire because time passed or words were said. You're here now.
That's what matters. I'm so sorry, Mom, for everything. I know and I forgive you. Do you forgive me? Thomas's answer was immediate.
Yes, God. Yes. Then we're okay. Dorothy's smile was radiant despite her exhaustion. We're going to be okay.
The next few days passed in a blur of precious moments. Matthew coming home from school and running straight to his grandparents. Dorothy helping him with homework, teaching him to play cards, telling him stories about when his father was young. Thomas taking time off work to be present, really present for the first time in years. Walter watched it all with bittersweet joy, watched Dorothy grow weaker each day, watched her appetite fade, her energy diminish her pain increase despite the medication.
But he also watched her smile more than she had in months. Watched her eyes light up whenever Matthew entered the room. Watched her and Thomas repair their relationship one conversation at a time. On the fourth day, Dorothy asked for something specific. I want to see Thomas's garage.
Mom, you're too weak. I'm dying, not dead. I want to see what you built. Thomas looked at Walter helplessly. Walter shrugged.
Your mother's stubborn. Always has been. So, they bundled Dorothy in blankets and drove her to Callahan's Auto Repair. It was a small building on the edge of town with two bays and a small office. The sign out front, handpainted professional, made Dorothy cry.
"You did this," she whispered. "You really did this. I told you I would. " Thomas helped her out of the car supporting her weight. "It's not much, but it's mine. It's perfect. " He gave them a tour, showed them the equipment he'd bought the customers cars in various states of repair, the small office where he did paperwork, introduced them to Pete, his employee, who'd been keeping things running while Thomas was home with his family.
Dorothy took it all in, her face glowing with pride. Your father and I were fools. This is wonderful. You should be so proud. I am.
Thomas's voice was thick. I just wish you'd been here to see it sooner. I'm here now. That's what counts. On the drive home, Dorothy fell asleep in the back seat, her head on Walter's shoulder.
Thomas watched them in the rearview mirror, and Walter saw tears streaming down his son's face. That night, Dorothy's pain got worse. Dr. Reynolds came by, adjusted her medication, spoke in low tones with Thomas about what to expect in the final stages. Walter heard fragments of the conversation, pain management, keeping her comfortable, maybe a few more days.
Walter sat with Dorothy through the night. She drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, sometimes confused. Around 3:00 a.m., she woke fully, her eyes clear. Walter, I'm here. Dot, did we do the right thing coming here?
Yes, absolutely. Yes. Even though I'm dying in a strange house instead of our own bed in Milbrook. Walter thought about that. This isn't a strange house.
This is our son's house, our grandson's house. This is family. And I think dying surrounded by family is exactly right. Dorothy smiled. You always know what to say.
I've had 56 years of practice. 56 wonderful years. Her hand found his in the darkness. I do it all again. You know, every minute, even the bad parts.
Me too. Dot. Me too. She fell back asleep. Walter kept watch, holding her hand, memorizing the sound of her breathing.
The next morning, Dorothy rallied. It happened sometimes at the end. A sudden burst of energy, a final gift. She came downstairs for breakfast, ate a full meal for the first time in days, laughed at Matthew's jokes, told stories about Thomas's childhood that made everyone crack up. For a few hours, it felt like she wasn't dying at all.