Like my grandfather before he died.
I detach myself from my mother and put Liv’s flowers on the bedside table.
“How are you, Liv?” my mother says.
“Fine, thank you, Joanna. I’m sorry about Richard.”
“The doctor said he might need surgery, but we don’t know what kind yet.” My mother looks at my father. Her hand goes up to fiddle with her pearl necklace. “I’ve let his office know. He was supposed to go to Sacramento next week.”
“You said Archer is coming back?” I ask.
“He left a message. I haven’t been able to reach him. His number is by the phone in your father’s library. See if you can find out when he expects to arrive.”
“I’ll try.” Though not very hard.
“I hadn’t heard from him in a few months,” she continues. “The last time I did, he mentioned some woman he was thinking of marrying. God knows what a disaster that would be.”
Her eyes barely flick to Liv. I struggle to control a wave of resentment.
“At any rate, I would certainly expect Archer to be here within a day or so,” my mother says. “People have already been asking where he is.”
I feel Liv’s worried gaze on me. She doesn’t need to be dragged into any of this again. Neither do I, but I’m here and I can already feel myself surrendering to the inevitable.
“I’ll look into it, Mom.”
“Good.”
“Dean.” My father opens his eyes, his voice a raspy whisper. “When did you get here?”
“Few hours ago.” I move to his bedside. “How do you feel?”
“They tell me I’ll make it.”
“Do you need anything, Richard?” my mother asks. “Water?”
My father shakes his head. His gaze shifts to the flowers. “What’re those?”
“Flowers from Liv.” I step aside so he can see Liv standing by the door.
She gives him a wave. “Good to see you, Mr. West. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“How long are you both staying?”
“Until you’re released from the hospital,” I say.
Liv touches my arm and tells me she’s going to the restroom. As soon as she leaves, my parents and I fall silent. I can’t remember the last time I was alone with them. The silence almost vibrates, filled with unpleasant memories.
My mother smooths the blanket, picks up a few fallen flower petals, refills the water pitcher, straightens the stuff on the bedside table.
Then, for lack of anything else to do, she picks up her purse. “Well, I suppose the doctor will be in soon. Dean, Paige and I will go home, now that you’re here.”
She gives my father a perfunctory kiss. Her heels click on the floor as she leaves.
“She says Archer is coming back,” I tell my father.
He shrugs. He resigned himself years ago to the idea that this is how things have to be. Thirty-five years of pretending means nothing will ever change. My parents would have divorced if my father had retired from the bench and gone into private practice, but he’s been associate justice on the California Supreme Court for over twenty-two years, having been elected and retained by voters in three elections. For him, divorce fell off the radar long ago.
Despite staying married, for all practical purposes, he and my mother are separated. My father spends most of his time hearing cases in San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Sacramento. He has an apartment in the city and, more than likely, several mistresses. My mother travels a lot on her own little vacations. They maintain the “perfect marriage” act when they’re both in town, and I suppose they’ve come to some sort of understanding about it.
But I know neither of them has ever been happy.
“So how’s work?” my father asks.
I tell him about the upcoming conference, the IHR grant, my classes and students. He tells me about recent court cases, policies of the California judicial council, what he thinks of the governor’s new appointments secretary.
After an hour, the doctor comes in for a consultation about the heart cath he’s planned to determine further treatment. My father waves me out of the room with instructions to come back tomorrow.
I find Liv in the waiting room, eating from a bag of vending-machine fruit snacks.
“When is the surgery?” she asks as we walk to the parking lot.
“Early next week, probably. They’ll schedule it tomorrow after they do some more tests.”
Before opening the car door for her, I put my arm around her waist. She turns to me, her body bowing against mine. Her lips are candy-sweet and warm. I rest my palm against her cheek and deepen the kiss.
Peaches and sugar. Everything good. The girl who has refused to prove herself to anyone except herself. The girl whose strength comes from inside.
“What?” Her whisper is soft against my mouth. She pulls back to look at me. “Are you still upset with me for wanting to come with you?”
“No.” I brush a few strands of hair off her forehead. I love all the locks of hair that are constantly escaping her ponytail or falling around her shoulders. Those stray tendrils have given me endless excuses to touch her.
“Then what?” Liv asks.
I shake my head. The questions jam into my throat.