That evening, as we were reviewing our progress in the living room, Victor’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Incoming Video Call: Melissa.
“Showtime,” Victor whispered.
We quickly put our plan into action. I helped Victor into the hospital bed, arranging the sheets to look chaotic. I placed the oxygen cannula in his nostrils and turned on the monitor so it beeped rhythmically in the background.
I mussed my hair, pinched my cheeks until they were red and blotchy, and took a deep breath to summon the stress.
When I answered the call, the camera showed me first.
“Hello?” I said, my voice breathless.
“Oh, Jade,” Melissa gasped. Her face filled the screen. She was wearing a sun hat and large sunglasses, the bright blue ocean visible behind her. “You look terrible. Is everything okay?”
“Managing,” I said simply. I turned the phone toward Victor.
He gave an Oscar-worthy performance. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth slightly open, his breathing deliberately labored and rattling.
“Uncle Victor?” Melissa called out, her voice pitching up. “It’s Melissa. Can you hear me?”
Victor’s eyelids fluttered weakly. “Melissa…” he whispered, the sound barely a rasp. “That you, sweetheart?”
The concern in Melissa’s voice sounded genuine for a moment. “Yeah, it’s me. We’re… we’re on the ship.”
“Home…” Victor groaned. “When… coming home?”
Melissa bit her lip. She looked off-camera, presumably at her mother or Brady. “Is he… is he going to make it until Monday?” she asked me, her voice dropping.
I turned the camera back to my face. “It’s hard to say. The hospice nurse thinks his systems are shutting down. If you want to say goodbye, you need to come home now.”
“Let me talk to Brady and Mom,” she said quickly, the panic setting in. “The thing is… these tickets were non-refundable. And Mom’s been so stressed lately, she really needed this. And we have the excursion to the ruins tomorrow…”
I nodded, fighting back a wave of genuine disgust. “Of course. It’s just that Victor keeps asking for Brady. In his more lucid moments.”
“I’ll tell him to call,” Melissa promised. “As soon as they get back from the buffet. Just… keep him comfortable.”
The screen went black.
Victor sat up and ripped the oxygen cannula off his face. “Did you record that?”
I held up my other phone, which had been propped against a vase, capturing the entire conversation. “Every word.”
Victor’s smile was unsatisfied, tinged with a deep, resonating sadness. “My family. Weighing their cruise tickets against saying goodbye to me.”
“I’m sorry, Victor,” I said softly.
“I knew it would happen exactly like this,” he said. “But knowing it and seeing it are two different things.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “They showed us exactly who they are.”
“Yes. And now we can stop pretending.”
Sunday morning dawned with a subtle, terrifying shift in the atmosphere.
As I brought Victor his morning tea, I noticed his hands were trembling more than usual—a fine, persistent tremor that rattled the cup against the saucer. There was a bluish tint around his lips that hadn’t been there the day before.
“You don’t have to pretend for me,” I said softly, helping him sit up. “You’re really not feeling well today, are you?”
Victor looked at me, his eyes clear but weary. “Ironic, isn’t it? After all our play-acting, the real thing sneaks up on us.”
I called Diane, the hospice nurse who had been making weekly visits before the family left. She promised to come by that afternoon but advised me on managing his comfort in the meantime.
This wasn’t a game anymore. The adrenaline of our scheme faded, replaced by a heavy, somber reality. Victor was actively declining. A rush of protectiveness swept over me. Our revenge plot suddenly felt secondary to ensuring this man’s dignity.
“What would you like for breakfast?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Peaches,” he said, surprising me. “Fresh peaches with heavy cream. My late wife, Martha, used to prepare them every Sunday morning.”
“Peaches,” I repeated. “In November.”
“I know,” he smiled weakly. “A tall order.”
It took me three different grocery stores. I finally found a small, overpriced container of imported peaches at a high-end market across town. When I returned and prepared them exactly as he described—sliced into perfect crescents, swimming in a pool of thick cream with a dusting of sugar—Victor’s eyes misted over at the first bite.
“Just like she used to make,” he whispered. “No one has bothered to remember such things about me in years.”
Throughout the day, I found myself doing things not for the plan, but simply for him. I adjusted his pillows every hour. I read aloud from his dog-eared copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep, doing terrible impressions of the gangsters which made him chuckle. I played the classical music station he liked on my phone.
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