“What’sscratch?”
“You’re a lotstupider than your father, aren’t you? Scratch is cash.”
“You want moneyfrom me? For what?”
“For the loss Itook having to get rid of my two best sellers. You took theirfriend, Allen, one of my recruits and gave him back to his family.After that, I had to get rid of the other two, in case Allendecided to rat.”
“How much doyou want from me?” I’ll say anything to get out of this alive.
He tells hewants fifty grand in two weeks’ time, or he’ll take more from methan a finger. I sit for a moment, staring at the floor then lookover at him and nod, “I’ll do my best.”
“For your sake,you’re gonna need to do more than that.”
Next, I seeTank’s big arm come across the seat. He slams my face into thewindow. Out my peripheral vision, I catch Fournier pull somethinglong and white out of his coat. Then, I hear the pop of a plasticcap and see the shine from the top of a needle.
The last thingI remember is feeling a sharp pain as the needle plunges into myleg.
ChapterTwelve
I awaken to asearing pain behind my eyes. I try to sit up, but I’m too dizzy.When the blurriness clears, I focus on where I am. I’m in myapartment, lying on the floor beside the couch. How did I get homeand where’s Jason’s truck? I manage to slowly sit up and use thecouch to support myself. I strain to remember last night. After afew minutes, pictures flash in front of my eyes, the park, thedarkness, and Fournier. Then, I remember Slinky sitting beside meon the back seat and Tank grabbing Slinky’s hand and then jamminghis finger in that silver thing. I can almost hear the grunts andgrowls he made, writhing in pain beside me. The last images thatpass through my mind are Fournier telling me to come up withfifty-thousand dollars and a needle plunging deep into my leg.
I cringe at thethought of the dope that was pushed into me. I slowly roll overuntil I’m on my hands and knees then use the couch to lift myselfup. At first, I teeter as I stand. After a few seconds, I gain mybearings and slowly walk to the washroom, using the wall to help mebalance. Turning on the shower, I take off my coat then undress therest of the way and climb under the running water. I look down atmy leg to see the red entry point from the syringe. Even thoughI’ve been a social drinker at points in my life, because of myupbringing, I’ve never touched drugs.
As the warmwater rushes over me, my mind turns back to Slinky. Is he stillalive? I cry remembering how he tried to get the driver and Tank tolet me go. I try telling myself that Slinky is smart and might havebeen able to talk his way out of getting killed in the end, butsomething tells me that he’s gone.
After scrubbingmy skin extra hard, I wrap a towel around me and go to my room,flopping down on my bed. Am I responsible for Slinky getting hurtor worse yet, killed? I remember Fournier talking to him in thebackseat. He said that Slinky betrayed him by meeting withme—twice. I just pray he’s not lying dead, alone on the cold forestfloor, somewhere in Stanley Park.
I hear my cellring from the bathroom. Wiping my eyes, I slowly walk to retrieveit. After locating my phone inside of my jacket pocket, I flip thetoilet lid down for a seat and answer the call, “Hello?” my voiceis croaky and weak.
“Hello. May Ispeak to Jules Gordon?” a man’s voice says.
“This isJules.”
The manintroduces himself as one of the doctors at the hospital where myfather is. He says that because my dad’s condition has improved, heis able to be released.
“Are you sure?I mean…isn’t it too soon to let him come home after sustaining ahead injury?” I ask, worriedly.
“No. His shouldbe fine as long as he takes it easy. There’s not much more we cando here for him except pain management and we will give him aprescription for painkillers when he is discharged.”
“And what abouthis tumor?”
“While he’sbeen in hospital for his head injury, a neuro-oncology team metwith your father to discuss recommended treatments for theAstrocytoma tumor. Your father decided to refuse treatment.”
“He what? Areyou kidding me?” I say, my voice getting stronger.
“Miss Gordon,I’m sure you’re aware that the tumor your father has is at stagefour. Even if he did undergo radiation and chemotherapy, his lifeexpectancy would not be significantly improved. The tumor he has isvery aggressive. A lot of patients with the same grade of tumor,often decline treatment. They just want the rest of their lives tobe as comfortable as possible and not to be poked and prodded bydoctors.”
“So, what doesthis mean? As time goes on, what will happen to him?”
“The mainsymptoms are headaches, which he has apparently been having forquite some time, blurred vision, and forgetfulness. Some patientswith this condition can experience seizures as well. There areother symptoms, but those are the most common ones. At some pointwhen he’s no longer able to be cared for at home, he will probablyneed to be admitted into palliative care.”
This is way toomuch to take in right now. So much has happened that I can’t thinkstraight, now, this. My father, the most important person in mylife, needs me to be strong and take care of him, but I don’t knowif I can. My head feels fragmented and confused.
“So, what can Ido to make him more comfortable?” I say, sniffing back tears.
“Just be therefor him. I’ll explain his medications to him before he goes.”
There’s notmuch more to say to the doctor. There’s no point. The bottom lineis - my father is sick and they can’t make him better.
After I hang upthe phone, I return to my bed and wrap my arms around my pillow.This time when I start to cry, the tears aren’t because ofFournier, they’re deeper. My father wasn’t always a burned-outaddict. He was great, too. After I picked him up from jail and hegot a job, a part of
