The door swished open. I thought it must be Lucas, back already. He’d been gone only a few minutes, which might upset Jack. Still, for once I was grateful that Lucas was showing up. Maybe his presence would clarify what ever it was Jack wanted to write to me—
But it was not Lucas. To my astonishment, Charlotte Attenborough, Craig Miller, and Bridezilla Billie all swept into Jack’s room. Charlotte was still wearing her mother-of-the bride outfit, but Billie had changed into a navy blue skirt and paisley blouse. Craig looked as dapper as ever in khaki pants and a maroon shirt. But why were they here? What the hell was going on?
“What do you want?” I asked, suddenly angry that they would see Jack looking so vulnerable.
“Shut up, Goldy,” Billie scolded.
“Shut up yourself,” I replied. “Jack doesn’t want to see you, trust me.” As if in complete assent to what I was saying, Jack let loose with a mighty groan.
“You see, Goldy?” Charlotte’s voice was triumphant. “He does indeed want to see us, or at least me, because I am the one he really, really loves—”
“We just wanted to check up on you, old boy,” Craig said with exaggerated cheer. “I told Billie there was no way we could go back to the reception right after you’d been hurt so badly—”
In response, Jack picked up the pencil and finally, finally scribbled something. His hand shaking, he passed the pad to Craig. Billie grabbed the pad first. She read aloud, “‘Go on your honeymoon’. You see, Craig, I told you the old coot would be just fine.” She tossed the pad back on Jack’s chest, and he moaned in pain.
Omigod, I hated this woman. But I wasn’t going to upset Jack any more than necessary. My godfather’s two previous heart attacks loomed large in my mind.
“Do you miss me, Jack?” Charlotte asked. To my astonishment, tears pooled in her eyes and spilled onto the hospital sheets. “Do you want me to stay? I will, you know. I’ll stay forever.”
She must be drunk, I concluded. I hadn’t seen how much booze people had imbibed at the reception, although I usually kept a close check on the alcohol consumption. I’d had too many buffets and cakes ruined by inebriated guests not to know when to tell the bartender to slow things down. But too much had been going on at Billie’s wedding. There had been half again as many guests as I usually had to deal with, and too much had happened in too short a time.
“Don’t you want me to stay?” Charlotte demanded of Jack. “I will, you know.” Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jack,” Charlotte implored, “won’t you even look at me?”
In reply, Jack moaned and kept his eyes closed.
“He might be in pain,” Craig Miller said. “Perhaps it would be best if we left.”
“Why does
“Come on, everybody,” Craig said, finally showing a bit of leadership ability. “Charlotte? Billie?” He gave his new wife a penetrating look. Billie, demure in the face of—spare me—actual authority she respected, flounced out. Charlotte, sobbing, followed her.
“Craig?” I asked, once the two women were in the hall. “Why did all of you come down here?”
“Charlotte insisted,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s had too much to drink, as you can no doubt tell, and I didn’t want her to drive. So we all came.” Behind us, Jack groaned again. Craig gave him a worried glance. “Should I get the nurse?”
“I don’t think so. He has the call button right next to him, and he knows what to do if he’s in pain. He’s trying to communicate something, but I don’t know what. He seems confused.”
Craig’s face scrunched in alarm. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“I’ll go ask him,” I said. “But if you could just take Charlotte and Billie away, I think that would be the best thing.”
Craig nodded and swept out.
“Jack?” I asked him. “Do you need the nurse? Do you want pain medication?”
This time his head shaking was unequivocal. He did not want the nurse or meds. But what did he want?
As if in answer, Jack’s hand went to the legal pad. Swift and sure, he wrote a word, then tapped on the paper for me to come see.
He’d written “Keys.”
“You want your keys?” I prompted.
Jack, looking confused again, wrote “Fin.”
But the door was opening. No wonder people said they couldn’t get any rest in the hospital. Jack quickly tore off the piece of paper, handed it to me, and gestured to the hospital closet.
“Oh, Dad,” said Lucas. “Did she finally leave you in peace?”
Next to the closet, with Jack’s piece of paper in my hand, I froze. As if in answer to Lucas, Jack let out his most fearsome groan yet. I pushed the paper into my pants pocket and turned around. Instead of meeting a chilly stare from Lucas, I saw him leaning over the bed, trying to read what Jack was writing now.
“Pain?” Lucas asked. “They just put morphine into your drip, Dad, I don’t think—”
But Jack groaned again, and Lucas, cursing, took off through the door. As soon as he was gone, I opened the closet and began showing Jack pieces of his clothing.
Jacket? He shook his head impatiently, and sure enough, there were no keys in either pocket. Shirt? No keys. When I held up the pants, Jack grunted, and I felt in each of the pockets. Finally, I pulled out his bundle of keys. They were covered with a gritty substance. Jack nodded, so I put the keys into my pocket, next to the piece of paper.
“Okay, here we are,” Lucas said as he reentered with a uniformed male companion. Doctor? Nurse? I had no idea. Nor did Jack seem to care, as he just closed his eyes again.
“I’ll be going,” I announced. Jack’s eyes didn’t flicker. “Get well soon,” I called to him. He didn’t open his eyes.
THE NEXT MORNING, our doorbell clanged very early. It was so early, in fact, that as I stared at our bedroom clock, I was convinced that the alarm had gone off by accident. It was not quite half past five.
Tom was not beside me. So he’d gone in extra early to work on the Finn case? Where was he?
The doorbell continued to ring. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying to remember the events of the night before. When I’d come home from the hospital, I’d found a note Arch had left me. Since Todd and his family were on their way to a fishing trip, he and Gus were going to the Rockies game with Gus’s grandparents, then staying at Gus’s place. He would call.
Not continue to press and press and press the doorbell. Cursing mightily, I pulled on a robe and half-raced, half-tripped down the stairs.
My peephole revealed Father Pete. His gray face was unusually somber; his clerical collar was as tight as a noose.
Oh, God, I thought. It’s bad news about Jack.
My mind immediately developed into denial. Didn’t Father Pete have to go get ready for church? No, wait, it was Monday, not Sunday…
I opened the door and avoided our priest’s eyes. “Father Pete, I don’t understand—”
“Let’s go into the living room, Goldy.”
I wished desperately for coffee, for Father Pete not to be here. But I moved into the living room anyway, and turned on two lamps. When Father Pete sat heavily in a wing chair, I lowered myself onto the edge of the couch.
My denial threatened to slither away. “I don’t want to hear bad news,” I said weakly.
Father Pete’s eyes were filled with sadness. I cursed inside. I cursed and cursed, waiting for his announcement. “I’m sorry, Goldy, I do have bad news. Very bad, I’m afraid. Your godfather, Jack Carmichael, died last night. He had a heart attack.”
17
I’m very sorry, Goldy,” Father Pete said. I blinked and blinked at him. “Would you like me
