“Hi there,” a nurse said as she breezed into the room. “I’m Yolanda.” Happy rainbows and smiley suns decorated her scrubs; the cheery fabric was in direct opposition to the dire cast of the room. “You must be Sadie. The nurse you talked to last night told us you’d be here this afternoon.” She looked at all the mechanical readouts, then checked the IV tube.
Sadie placed her father’s hand on the sheet and slid out of the way. “How’s he doing?”
Yolanda glanced up and read a tag on the IV bag. “Have you talked to his doctors?”
Sadie shook her head and moved to the foot of the bed. “They returned my calls while I was on the plane.”
“He’s doing as well as can be expected for a gentleman his age.” She moved to the other side of the bed and checked his catheter bag. “We interrupted his sedation this morning. He was fairly combative.”
Of course he was.
“But that’s normal.”
“If it’s normal, why interrupt the sedation?” she asked. It just seemed unnecessary to her.
“Sedation vacations help orient him to his surroundings and situation, and it helps with his weaning process.”
“When will he be weaned?”
“Hard to say. It’ll depend on when he can support his own breathing, and when he’s getting enough oxygenation.” Yolanda raised the head of his bed and checked a few more lines and dials. “I’ll let his doctors know you’re here. If there is anything you need, let me know.”
Sadie took a chair next to his bed and waited. She waited until after five when the pulmonologist showed up to tell her exactly what she pretty much already knew. Clive had broken ribs and a punctured lung and a damaged spleen, and they had to wait and see how he responded to treatment. The geriatrician was more informative, although he said things that were hard to hear. Elderly patients presented a whole different spectrum of concerns, and the doctor talked to Sadie about the increased risk of acute atelectasis and pneumonia and thrombosis. People over the age of sixty were twice as likely to die from their injuries as younger patients.
Sadie scrubbed her face with her hands. She wasn’t going to think about acute atelectasis and pneumonia and thrombosis. “Presuming he doesn’t present those risks, how long will he have to stay in the hospital?”
The doctor looked at her and she knew she wasn’t going to like the answer. “Barring a miracle, your father has a long recovery ahead of him.”
Her father was old but he was very strong, and if anyone could have a miraculous recovery, it was Clive Hollowell.
That night after she left the hospital, she found a local mall. She bought underwear at Victoria’s Secret and some comfy sundresses and yoga gear at Macy’s and the Gap. She’d booked a room at a Residence Inn close to the hospital and sent her new clothes to the hotel’s laundry service. She checked her e-mail and read carefully through a buyer’s offer on a multimillion-dollar property in Fountain Hills. She called her client with the offer, made a counter, and tightened up some of the language. She eFaxed the revised changes to the buyer’s agent. She might be stuck in Laredo, but she was on top of things. She waited to hear back from the agent, then called her clients back and they accepted the deal. Renee could handle the rest of the closing, and Sadie went to bed and slept solid until eight the next morning.
Her new clothes were clean and waiting for her outside her hotel room door. She showered, did a bit of work on her computer, and was at the hospital when the doctors made their first rounds of the day. She was there when they suctioned out his breathing tube and when they restrained his hands and feet and brought him out of sedation for a brief time. They told him where he was and what had happened to him. They told him that Sadie was there.
“I’m here, Daddy,” she said as he pulled at the restraints holding his wrists. His blue eyes, wild and confused, rolled toward the sound of her voice. A distressed moan rumbled his throat as the ventilator forced air into his lungs.
She took a deep breath and let it out, and when she entered her father’s room again, he was resting quietly.
The next day was much like the day before. She spoke with the doctors about his progress and care, and like the day before, she forced herself to stand by his bed as they brought him out of sedation. She was her father’s daughter. She was tough, even when she was falling apart inside.
A week after the accident, Sadie had to adjust her work schedule. She talked to the broker and had all her clients moved to other agents. She had to face the fact that there would be no miracle recovery for her father. He was in for a long recovery, and she was in for a long absence from her real life.
Each day, he spent a bit more time off sedation, and they started the process of weaning him off the ventilator. When she entered the room a week and a half after the accident, the ventilator was gone, replaced by a nasal cannula. Her father lay in bed, asleep. A little touch of relief lifted her heart as she moved to the side of his bed.
“Daddy?” She leaned over him. He was still hooked to monitors and bags of saline and medication. His skin was still pale and drawn. “Daddy, I’m here.”
Clive’s eyelids fluttered open. “Sadie?” His voice was a painful rasp.
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Why . . .” He coughed, then grabbed his side with shaky hands. “Son of a bitch!” his croaky voice swore. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary! My goddamn side is on fire.”
Yolanda, of the smiley rainbow scrubs, was back on duty. “Mr. Hollowell, do you need some water?”
“I don’t need”—he broke into another coughing fit, and Sadie cringed—“any goddamn water. Goddamn it!”
Yolanda turned to Sadie as she poured the water anyway. “Some patients wake up cranky,” she warned. “It’s just stress and confusion.”
No. It was just Clive Hollowell’s natural disposition.
The Monday after the ridiculous fuckery at the wedding palace from hell, Vince called a bank in Amarillo and made an appointment to talk to a business loan officer in two weeks’ time. Years ago, he’d borrowed money to buy a Laundromat, and he knew the drill. This time, though, he wouldn’t be using the VA loan program. This time he’d need more cash than the half-million-dollar cap.
In anticipation of the meeting, he got the names of a commercial inspector and appraiser and set up appointments with both. He wrote out a business plan and got his financial documents in order. Everything from his banking history, retirement savings, and stock accounts. He got the financial records for the Gas and Go for the past five years, and he had his sister go to his storage shed in Seattle and send him his tax records for the past two years. For some reason, she’d also sent a few boxes of personal stuff. Loose photos and medals and patches and commendations. The Trident Wilson’s mother had given him on the day he’d buried his friend.
By the time he walked into the bank with the appraisal and inspection in hand, he was prepared. Just as he liked to live his life. Prepared. Not like a Boy Scout. Like a SEAL. If anything was going to hold back the sale, it was Aunt Luraleen’s loosey-goosey way of keeping records. Her assets and liabilities sheets were a mess, but the Gas and Go had passed inspection with flying colors. Luraleen’s financials might be lax, but she was in complete compliance when it came to environmental infractions. The building itself might need some attention, but the fuel tanks were solid. And the fact that Luraleen was offering the business several hundred thousand dollars below appraisal made Vince fairly confident that the loan would be approved. Of course, there were always unknowables that could stall the process.
Vince hated unknowables even more than he hated owing anyone anything.
While he waited to hear from the bank, he learned as much as he could about running a convenience store. He
