Chapter Three
It was Wednesday evening when all hell broke loose, beginning when Robin came back from a late-afternoon run. She was standing in the entry, speaking through short breaths to Darren Fogerty on her cell phone when Dad made his way downstairs, taking the steps very carefully, as if his whole body hurt.
“I’ll be straight with you, Robin,” Darren was saying. “I’ve got some other options on the table. Now you have guaranteed your transport times, but the rate is a little higher than I was hoping.”
Robin cringed; the rate she had quoted him for ground transport was cheaper than any contract LTI had. To go any lower would mean approval from Evan and Dad. “Let me check on a couple of things, will you?” She glanced up as Dad came to a halt directly in front of her.
“When? I really need to wrap this up.”
“Umm, by the end of the week for sure,” she said, and nodded hopefully at Dad for confirmation, but Dad responded by angrily mimicking a fork to the mouth to remind her that it was time for dinner.
Robin covered the mouthpiece of her cell phone. “Jeez, Dad, this isn’t Luby’s,” she whispered. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Dad looked a little taken aback as she said to Darren, “Count on Friday at the very latest. Can you wait ‘til then?”
“Sure. Maybe I can take you out to dinner to celebrate.”
Robin smiled as if Darren were in the same room with her—she could feel this deal gelling very nicely. “I’d really like that, Darren. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
With that, she flipped the little phone shut and looked at Dad. His eyes narrowed. “Who is Darren?”
Robin flushed, dropped her phone in her purse. “No one you know,” she said, and put her hands on her hips. “So, Dad, what is this dinner thing, anyway?”
His scowl deepened. “This dinner thing is to help me keep a shit-load of medicine down. I’m sorry if that interferes with your dining schedule—”
Robin instantly threw a hand up. “Sorry. I was just asking.” She brushed past him, bounding up the stairs to the shower.
“Sorry to be keeping you from your date,” he snapped after her.
God, what was the matter with him? “He’s not a date, Dad!” she called as she disappeared into the corridor above. It was obvious Dad was miserable; Mom said the medicine was making him sick and moody—he was almost tearful at times, or too angry, or too stoic. And more than once she’d caught him staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
God forbid anything should come up about LTI, she thought as she grabbed some panties and a camisole and headed for the shower. Everything she said was wrong. Like when he asked her about the regional sales figures. She told him that they were improving over the last quarter, but that only seemed to agitate him. “They aren’t improving! They’re abysmal! Don’t you know anything?” And when she tried to explain, he had almost twisted off into an apoplectic fit.
It wasn’t just her, either. He was constantly on Rebecca about her calls home, dogged Rachel about her eating habits, and generally seemed to despise everyone except Mom. Which, Robin thought, seemed especially bizarro, seeing as how they had been separated all these years.
The abysmal mood had not improved when Robin entered the dining room dressed in a white cotton T-shirt and faded Levi’s. Rebecca caught her eye, and with her hand, made a slashing motion across her neck. Dad didn’t see Rebecca; he was trying to drink the herbal cocktail Mom made for him every night. But when Rachel came in behind Robin, she missed Rebecca’s warning.
“Is there something I can get you, Dad? Some medicine or something?”
He shook his head, swallowed the last of the stuff with a groan.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Would everyone stop asking me if I am all right?” he snapped. “Jesus Christ, I feel like I am surrounded by a bunch of Nurse Betties!”
Rebecca rolled her eyes and went through the swinging door to the kitchen; Rachel was close on her heels, head down. Dad didn’t seem to notice; he was rubbing his eves and looked to be in pain. Reluctantly, Robin took her seat. Fortunately, the door swung open again, and it was Mom, carrying a steaming dish of beef Stroganoff.
She set the dish down and looked at Dad. “I hear you are feeling a little out of sorts.”
“I have to eat at six,” he grumbled. “You know that.”
“Fifteen minutes one way or another is not going to make a great difference. I know you are not feeling well, Aaron, and I know you are worried about any number of things, but you might try and remember that this very is hard on everyone.”
“You’d never know it was hard on anyone around here but me.”
“Oh please. The girls are walking on eggshells around you,” Mom countered, just as Rachel came through the swinging door, a bottle of wine in one hand, wineglasses in the other, and a pretzel clamped between her teeth.