But there never was anything. I kissed him. In hindsight, I’m not even sure he really kissed me back. I have to accept that, whatever I thought might be happening, isn’t.
I thumb through the rest of the mail for a distraction. Most of it is for Becky, but near the bottom is an envelope for Dad. The return address is Oak Crest Memorial Hospital.
It’s not addressed to me. I should leave it in his stack. But instead, I slip my thumb under the flap and pull it open.
It’s what I thought it was—a bill. And the number at the bottom is staggering. I could turn tricks until I graduate college and never pay this off.
But then I notice a payment was made last week. It barely makes a dent, but it’s enough that I can’t imagine where Dad found the money. I tuck the bacon and the bill into a plastic shopping bag and head to the bus.
I’ve called over to rehab every day since I dropped Dad there on Friday, and they’ve told me it would be better if I waited to come see him. He’s been agitated, they say, because he’s going through the roughest part of his withdrawal. But today when I called, his nurse said he was doing much better.
When I walk into his room, he’s in a chair in the corner reading. He honestly looks worse than when he was drinking. His eyes and cheeks are sunken in a face devoid of color. The tremor of the book in his hand gives away his shakes.
When I see what he’s reading, my heart seizes in my chest. Dad was a numbers guy married to a word girl. They say that opposites attract, and in my parents’ case I think it might have been true. When Dad reads, which is seldom, it’s crime novels. Romance isn’t his thing. I’ve never once seen him read anything of Mom’s.
Until now.
He closes her last published novel and sets it aside when he sees me in the door.
“How are you doing?” I ask as I move tentatively forward.
His smile is weary. “Getting there. How’s everything at home?”
“Okay. This came,” I say, pulling the hospital bill out of the shopping bag and handing it to him. I gesture to my face. “I wanted to wait until I looked a little better to go out applying for jobs, but I’ll start looking this week.”
“You don’t need to do that. We’ll figure it out.” He pulls the bill from the envelope and whistles through his teeth, then his brow creases. “Did you already pay part of this?”
I feel my eyebrows go up. “No. I thought that was you.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe it’s some kind of adjustment. Or they might have written part of it off.”
“Maybe,” I say, but that doesn’t sound right. It says “cash payment” on the item line. But there’s no sense arguing it right now. “Do you know how much longer they’re going to keep you here?”
“They say I’m doing well, though I feel like the living dead most of the time, but it could be anywhere from another week to maybe three, depending on how everything goes. But Becky should be home any day now.”
I hold up the shopping bag in my hand. “She sent something for us. Said she’d be home Wednesday.”
“Oh, yeah?” he says glancing at the bag, but there’s no enthusiasm behind it.
I pull out the package of chocolate covered bacon. “She found this in Phoenix.”
He takes it from my hand and reads the label. “What will they think of next?”
He pulls the Ziploc open and takes a whiff and his face goes from ashen to green in a split second. Before I even know what’s happened, he’s dropped the bag and is running for the bathroom. I cringe as I listen to him heave over the toilet.
I grab the bag of bacon from his chair and reseal it, then tuck it back into the shopping bag so it’s out of his sight. “You okay, Dad?” I ask, even though it’s clear he’s not.
He rinses his mouth in the sink and comes out. “Sorry. My stomach’s a little unpredictable. The meds they have me on are kicking my butt.”
I nod and decide not to mention that it’s probably just the withdrawal.
He settles back into his chair and I sit on the end of the bed. “How are you liking it?” I ask with a nod at Mom’s book.
He lifts it and flips it in his hand. “I can hear her in her characters. I never realized how much of herself she put into these stories.”
“Do you know what she was writing when…” I trail off when I feel a ball of emotion starting to choke off my words.
He shakes his head. “We never really talked about her work,” he says, his words a cloud of regret.
“I have her laptop. I’ve read the first few chapters. It opens at Ashford Castle.”
His eyes lift from the book to mine, but he doesn’t say anything.
“That was the best two weeks of my life,” I say. “It was great that Mom was just with us, you know? Not writing or lost in her own world.”
He nods slowly as his eyes glisten with moisture. “That was a good trip.”