She patted my cheek. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“I look that good, huh?”
“You look wonderful. I’m so happy you’re here. I’ll finally have all my kids under one roof again.” At least someone was excited by that prospect. “It’s been too long since we sat down to a family dinner.”
Her words weren’t meant to make me feel guilty, but I still felt it.
“You just missed Jesse. He went to the airport to pick up Gideon.”
I saw Jesse a few months ago when he was in Peoria for a motocross race but I hadn’t seen Gideon in a few years. Our lives were so drastically different that I couldn’t relate. Gideon had a closetful of suits that cost more than everything I owned. According to Jesse, he lived in a ‘sick’ apartment in Manhattan and summered in the Hamptons.
“Now that you’re here, you might be able to get some answers.” My mom linked her arm in mine as we walked down the corridor to my father’s room. He’d been moved out of the ICU and into a private room. On the way there, she greeted one of the nurses by name and gave an orderly a bright smile.
“I didn’t come here looking for answers. I’m here to visit Dad and to help out in any way I can.”
“I know.” She patted my arm. “But since you haven’t even let me so much as mention their names, there’s a lot you don’t know.”
I huffed out a laugh. “I know everything I need to know.”
My mom sighed. “Still so stubborn.”
No comment. I wasn’t about to debate the rights and wrongs of this fucked-up situation. Not when we were standing outside my father’s hospital room.
“He’ll be so happy to see you. They’ve taken him off the ventilator. He’s grouchy, complaining about being stuck in a hospital, but the doctor says he’s doing great.” She smiled, her relief evident. “I’m going to get coffee. Give you two some time alone.” She patted my arm again before she walked away, her stride brisk, her trim figure disappearing around the next corner.
Pushing down on the metal door handle, I entered my dad’s room. His eyes opened and he looked over at the doorway as I moved closer to his bed.
My dad and I weren’t huggers. The most we’d ever done was the one-armed hug with a back thump. Not sure that was a good idea today. Not when he had an IV in his arm and had just had his chest cut open.
“Hey old man. You’ll do anything for a bit of attention.”
He huffed out a laugh that made him wince and I immediately regretted my joke.
I grabbed a chair and moved it to the other side of his bed, taking a seat so I was facing the door. Still couldn’t turn my back to it.
“Who you calling an old man?” His voice was hoarse and scratchy like it hurt him to talk. “I can still whoop your ass.”
“Don’t doubt that for a minute.”
“So this is what it takes to get you home. I have to be knockin’ on death’s door.”
“You’re not even close to death’s door,” I scoffed. “You look like you’re ready to dance a jig.”
His lips tugged into a smile. My dad had a few more grays peppered through his dark hair and he was paler than normal but he still had a powerful build and he hadn’t changed much since the last time I saw him a year ago. But I couldn’t remember my father ever having so much as a cold or taking a sick day, so seeing him in a hospital gown, at the mercy of others to look after him, was disconcerting.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I wanna get the hell out of here.” He ripped out the oxygen from his nose, the stubborn bastard.
“Yeah. Hospitals are no fun.” My eyes darted to the machine monitoring his heart, the blips and beeps reassuring me that it was still beating strong and steady. “You’ll be out of here soon.”
“They’re threatening to keep me in here for two weeks.”
“Just think of it as a vacation. Sit back and let them take care of you.”
He snorted. Good luck to the hospital staff if they planned to keep him in a room for two weeks. My dad would be climbing the walls. “Good to have you home, son.”
“Good to be here,” I lied.
“I’m hoping you’ll stay.”
Those words filled me with dread. “I’m here now. Don’t get greedy.”
That made him laugh again and then he coughed. Shit.
“No laughing. Doctor’s orders.” I poured a cup of water from the pitcher on his bedside table and guided the straw to his mouth. He took a few sips then leaned back against the pillow, exhausted from the effort of taking a few sips of water. I set the cup back on the table.
“I feel like a goddamn toddler.”
“You’ll be fighting fit in no time.”
He nodded and we sat in comfortable silence but I could tell he had a lot on his mind. “Proud of you. Proud of the work you’ve been doing.” He cleared his throat. Paying compliments didn’t come easy for him. “You’ve done good.”
Not sure I had. I’d spent years being anything but good. “Yeah well, when you hit rock bottom there’s nowhere to go but up.”
“I think we both know that’s not true.”
He was right. In the past six years, two guys from my unit had taken their own lives. I’d come so close to becoming another statistic.
I’d been diagnosed with PTSD. It wasn’t something that simply vanished. I still had triggers. I still had bad dreams that woke me in a cold sweat and made me feel like I was dying. I still had flashbacks.
I was told they might never go away. But they weren’t as frequent. In the past few years, I’d had a lot of counseling so
