Chapter Thirteen – Holding On
Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, David stood his ground beside Rachel — not in argument, but in quiet accord. They walked back into the hospice together, no longer entirely apart.
Now, the day starts with boundaries.
A daughter guarding her father’s strength.
A son promising to follow her lead.
But even the best intentions can bend.
And what follows is less about getting it right than finding a way back when you don’t.
Still holding on. Even when the edges fray.
Chapter Thirteen
David pulled into the hospice car park around eleven, killing the engine. The sky pressed down—low, heavy, unyielding, as if the day had weight it meant to share. Through the glass doors, Rachel stood at the front desk, shoulders squared, lips pressed thin, pen scratching across her notebook.
“Morning,” he said, stepping inside, hands in his pockets.
She didn’t look up straight away. When she did, her face softened—but only a shade.
“How’s Dad?”
“Better than yesterday.” She flipped open her notebook, scanned a page, and tore it out with a neat, decisive rip. “Here.”
She passed it across, her thumb resting on the corner for a beat too long before letting go, as if reluctant to sever it from the book.
They moved to the seating area. The place was quiet except for the occasional squeak of shoes on linoleum. Rachel’s pen was still tucked into the spiral, ready for the next entry, the next adjustment.
“Four visitors over the next two days. That’s it. He can’t handle more.”
David scanned her neat, precise list. “What about today?”
“No visitors. Just us and the kids. I’ll bring them after school for a short visit. You take them home—Chris will be there—then you come back for the evening shift.”
Her clipped tone made him feel sixteen again, handed a chore list he hadn’t asked for. “Four visitors, two days.” He folded the torn page once, then again, with mock finality. “Easy. I’ve got this.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Don’t overthink it. Just stick to the plan.”
He almost pushed back. But there was worry in her eyes, and the faint tremor in the hand still resting on the notebook told him more than her voice.
“Yeah,” he said, softer. “I’ll stick to it.”
The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. Not comfort—just a pause in the strain.
David set up in the visitor’s lounge, unfolding the page Rachel had torn from her notebook and pressing it flat on the table. On the back, he drew a grid, phone propped against a coffee cup, her voice still in his head—Four visitors. Two days. No exceptions. It felt stingy. People needed to see Ralph while they could.
“You can absolutely come today,” he told one caller, pen hovering. “Afternoon or evening works.”
The grid began to blur—names crossed out, arrows jammed into margins, double bookings shrugged off. “It’ll be fine,” he muttered, though the words didn’t hold.
By mid-afternoon, Ralph’s room was shoulder-to-shoulder. Heat, perfume, the clink of teacups. Voices overlapped, cheerful but relentless. His gaze drifted mid-conversation; his hand slackened on the blanket.
David lingered at the door, the crumpled page damp in his hand. Not that bad, he told himself—until a nurse came in to adjust Ralph’s IV, her glance sharp enough to cut. His stomach twisted.
Rachel’s arrival was a splash of cold water. She stepped in with Emma and Liam, eyes sweeping the room before locking on Ralph’s pale, strained face.
“What is this?” she asked, voice low but edged.
David swallowed. “It’s… the schedule.”
Her gaze didn’t move. “The schedule,” she repeated, as if testing the word. “The one where I said just family today?”
“I thought—”
“You thought what?” The quiet sharpened. “That ‘just family’ somehow meant a revolving door?”
He dropped his eyes. “I just didn’t want to leave anyone out.”
“Well, congratulations,” she said, measured but cutting. “You’ve left Dad completely worn out.”
For a moment, she stood still, jaw tight. Then her hands smoothed Ralph’s blanket, and her voice softened. “Help me clear the room.”
They worked side by side, murmuring apologies, rescheduling promises. When the last visitor left, the quiet felt almost medicinal.
David hovered at the door. “I’ll just stay out of the way next time.”
“I don’t need you out of the way,” she said, brushing Ralph’s blanket smooth. “I need you to listen. Dad needs calm. Not chaos.”
The words hung, sharper than she may have meant. David swallowed hard. “I’ll do better.”
“Good,” she said simply, already turning back to her father.
As Rachel led the kids down the hall for their goodbyes, Ralph beckoned with a weak hand. “Come here, lad.”
David hesitated, then took the chair beside the bed. “I really messed things up, didn’t I?” he said quietly.
Ralph’s chuckle was faint but warm, hazel eyes glinting. “Not the first time, is it? Remember that red van of yours—wheel hanging off?”
David managed a smile. “Yeah. Thought I could fix it. Snapped the axle instead.”
“You did.” A small tug at Ralph’s mouth. “But what happened when we worked on it together?”
The memory surfaced—steady hands, tools laid out, the slow satisfaction of the job done right. “We fixed it.”
“Exactly. You’ve always tried, son. That’s what counts. We all make a mess sometimes. What matters is what you do after.”
David looked at his hands, the words settling like balm. “Thanks, Dad.”
Ralph’s smile deepened, eyes fluttering shut. “And don’t forget The Derbyshire Times tomorrow,” he murmured. “I like to check I’m not in the obituaries yet.”
David laughed, the knot in his chest loosening. “You’ve got it.”
They sat in companionable silence, the memory between them like a bridge—narrow, but enough.
After dropping the kids at home, David was halfway down the drive when Chris appeared in the doorway.
“You staying for dinner?” His tone was casual, but there was weight behind it.
David hesitated. “Was just going to grab a coffee before heading back to the hospice.”
“Perfect,” Chris said, stepping aside. “Stay here instead. The kids would love it, and we’ve got plenty.”
David glanced toward the living room, where Liam was sprawled on the floor, crayons scattered. “Go on then,” he said.
“Good,” Chris replied, clapping him on the back.
At the table, conversation flowed easily under Chris’s quiet steering—asking Emma about her project, teasing Liam over the mountain of mashed potatoes, keeping things light until David found himself relaxing.
When the kids disappeared into the living room, Chris leaned back. “Rachel’s been running herself into the ground.”
David paused, fork hovering. “Yeah. I can see that.”
“She doesn’t always show it, but she’s carrying a lot. And I know she gets frustrated, but you being there? It helps.”
David looked down. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just in the way.”
“You’re not,” Chris said, voice firm. “You’re showing up. That counts.”
David exhaled slowly. “I just wish I could do more.”
“You’re both hard-headed Jacksons—two sides of the same coin.”
David let out a dry laugh. “She’d hate hearing that.”
“Exactly,” Chris said, grinning.
Later, as David stood to leave, Chris handed him a foil-wrapped container. “For tonight. Hospice snacks don’t cut it.”
David took it, the gesture softening his expression. “Thanks. For dinner. For everything.”
“That’s what family’s for,” Chris said.
Stepping into the cool night, David felt the weight on his shoulders ease—just enough to notice.
The comfort of dinner lingered as David walked to his car, but the weight of the evening closed in fast. He unlocked the door, the cold metal biting his palm. For a moment he stood there, the stillness broken only by the faint hum of a distant engine.
“Uncle David?”
He froze. Turning, he saw Emma at the edge of the porch, still on the step, arms wrapped around herself. The porch light caught her face, making her look smaller, her usual confidence thinned to something fragile. Her slippers scuffed the pavement; her eyes searched his.
“Emma?” He let go of the door and stepped toward her. “What’s wrong?”
She glanced down, as if the words were somewhere on the driveway. “I just… I just wanted to talk. Before you go.”
Rachel’s voice flared in his head—You’ve got one job, David. Be there on time. But the quiet plea in Emma’s eyes held him.
“Of course,” he said, softening. He nodded toward the car. “Hop in.”
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