6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Cora
Monday mornings have always sucked. Not because it’s the day I go back to work after having one off, but because everything always goes wrong. I have a perpetual case of the Mondays. And yes, I wish it were Sunday.
This Monday is no different. In fact, it’s possible today is the worst Monday ever.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
The doctor nods, scooting his stool-on-wheels closer to where I am sitting. Dad is up on the exam table, staring at the wall like it’s got him in a trance. His head is slightly tilted as if he’s listening to it speak.
"Your father has coronary artery disease, Cora. This means the arteries supplying blood to his heart have become narrowed due to a buildup of plaque.”
Disease is never good. I’m assuming it’s really not good when it has to do with the heart. I’m not knowledgeable with medical stuff. It’s all gibberish to me. I try like hell to remember everything going on with Dad already, and it’s hard enough to keep up with all that. Now there’s something new? Something worse?
“Is it serious?”
The doctor gives me a sympathetic look and nods.
"It is, yes. When the arteries are narrowed, the heart doesn't get enough oxygen-rich blood, which can cause chest pain, especially during physical activity or stress. Your father is stressed often, due to the Dementia. CAD can also lead to more severe issues, such as a heart attack.”
“Oh my god…” The words leave my lips, and I don’t mean for them too. My eyes fall closed, and I focus on breathing. What more can this poor man handle?
There’s a soft, warm arm on my shoulder, which has me opening my eyes.
Doctor Anderson is close enough I can see the dark blue swirls in his otherwise crystal blue eyes. They’re full of kindness and understanding. He’s young, not much older than me. Hasn’t been a doctor for long, but he’s great at his job. At least, as far as bed-side manner goes.
Could he be wrong? Should I get a second opinion?
“There is a procedure that we recommend,” he continues.
“A procedure?”
“It’s called angioplasty. We insert a small balloon into the blocked artery and inflate it to widen the artery. Then we place a stent, which is a tiny mesh tube, to keep the artery open and ensure proper blood flow to his heart. This will help reduce his symptoms and lower the risk of a heart attack."
Reduce means it isn’t a sure fix. Just possible. How big of a procedure are we talking? Are they cutting his chest open? Something done with a robot? I know they can do that nowadays, but is this something like that?
I hate that all of Dad’s medical stuff has fallen on me. I don’t know anything about any of this stuff, and I don’t have anyone to ask. We have no other family. I have no friends. I’m not cut out for this. Why did I think I could do this?
Take a breath.
I take a deep breath, then ask, “Is this dangerous? Are there risks? What if we don’t do the procedure?”
“Like any medical procedure, there are some risks, including bleeding, infection, or a reaction to the dye used during the procedure. There's also a minor risk of damage to the artery. However, angioplasty and stenting are generally safe, and the benefits of restoring proper blood flow to the heart typically outweigh the risks.” He sighs, folding his hands together. “Cora, without this procedure, your father’s disease will likely worsen. It increases his chance of having a heart attack, and there could be frequent chest pain. It’s possible he’s been experiencing chest pain for a while now, and that’s why he’s been so irritable."
I glance at my father, who slow-blinks but doesn’t take his gaze from the wall. Why is it he’s always so calm at the doctors? No matter which doctor we go to, he’s like this. Well-behaved. A perfect angel. I feel like they don’t believe me when I explain everything he does at home. Like I’m one of those people who fake illnesses on loved ones to get attention, as if I’d want to deal with all of this. I don’t want attention from anyone! Never mind if it’s for reasons like this.
My god, have people really thought that about me?
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. More issues with Dad aren’t what I need. Not now—not ever. I was grateful when I was named his healthcare proxy, knowing there is no way he could make decisions for himself, but the stress is… well, it’s overwhelming. I should have gone with a court-appointed one, but what do they actually know?
“How long do I have to decide?”
Doctor Anderson smiles and gets to his feet.
“Take your time thinking this over. It’s a big decision. But I will say that if we’re going to do the procedure, it’s best to do it sooner rather than later.”
He offers his hand out and I shake it after getting to my feet.
“Thank you,” I mutter, trying to give him a smile but I don’t think it works.
He then goes to my father.
“Nice seeing you again, Calvin. Have a great day.”
He doesn’t respond.
Doctor Anderson pats him on the shoulder before leaving us alone in the room. I know that means we can leave now, go home, but I can’t get my feet to work.
I don’t normally have two days off in a row. Sunday and Tuesdays are my typical days off, but I had to swap days off so I could take Dad to his three medical appointments yesterday. I try to schedule as many as I can in one day, so I don’t have to take off multiple days. It’s stressful for both of us, but one day of stress is better than four or five. And like I said, he tends to be amazing at doctor appointments. Not lucid, but calm. That’s something. It gives him a break, and me too.
Going to work on a Tuesday isn’t much different from any other day. All days are pretty similar at the diner, though the weekends are a little busier. Fridays and Saturdays see better tips, since that’s when people get paid.
Not being here for two days in a row seems like a mini vacation—one that isn’t fun—and getting back to work is tough. But I’m on shift on time. Which is a relief. What’s even more of a relief is that Norman isn’t here today. Or at least he isn’t here now.
“Your boyfriend was here last night,” Fia says as she wipes down the table by the door. We’re opening today, meaning it’s a little before six in the morning. I do a mix of opening shifts and closing shifts. Neither is better than the other, but when I get home earlier, Dad is usually in a better mood. He hates me most nights. Thinks I’m some kind of alien or government experiment here to eat his brain .
“Huh? What? Boyfriend?” I ask, pressing the start button on the coffee pot.
“Yeah, you know? That hot biker. Shark, right?”
Oh, him…
I huff out a laugh.
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Oh, but you wish he was,” she sing-songs as she comes around the counter to grab a mug, putting it by mine near the coffeepot. One perk of working here is unlimited drinks and one meal per shift. Not that the food is outstanding, but it’s convenient. The coffee is pretty good, and it’s what I need to survive nowadays since nothing stronger is acceptable at work. Not that I’d ever do drugs, but some days the thought is appealing. Lord knows I’m not getting enough sleep to get by. Yet here I am.
“He asked for you,” she says with a Cheshire-like grin.
“He did?” I blurt.
She laughs. “Yeah, wanted to know why you weren’t working your normal shift. You know what that means?”
I furrow my brow. “No?”
“It means he knows your schedule. Meaning he pays attention. Not something many men do anymore.”
I roll my eyes. “And what do you know about men these days? You’re younger than I am.”
She shrugs. “I’ve seen my mother go through one a week my whole life. I know enough.”
That knocks me silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, not sure how else to respond to that .
Fia shrugs again, then grabs a couple packets of sugar, tearing them open and dumping them into her mug.
“No need to be sorry. Not my problem anymore—not since I moved out.”
“Good for you for doing that.”
The sugar packets get tossed into the bin and Fia faces me again.
“Don’t get all weird on me now. I don’t want pity.”
“No, of course not. I would never.”
“We all have our own shit to deal with.”
“Don’t I know it?”
She nods, giving me a look like she knows all about my shit and is waiting for me to open up to her. She probably knows everything since I’m forced to blurt it out in hopes Norman gives me a break. I don’t care though. I’m not ashamed of my father. Maybe a little embarrassed from time to time, but ultimately, I know none of this is my fault or his fault. There’s nothing either of us can do about it, so why be embarrassed?
Except the other night, of course. When all that happened in front of Shark. Though, I wasn’t embarrassed of my father, just the situation, I guess. I should have warned Shark first. What in the world was going through his head?
“Five-minute warning!” Christian calls out from the kitchen.
Fia calls back, “Thanks!”
Christian lets us know five minutes before opening and five minutes before closing. Been doing it as long as I’ve been here, and I’m sure even longer than that .
“I gave him my number,” I say, grabbing the coffeepot to fill our mugs. When Fia says nothing, I look at her. After a second or two, her eyes light up like she’s just now understanding.
“Has he called?”
I sigh, recalling the unknown number that called me on Sunday, and the follow-up text that came a few minutes later, letting me know it was him.
“Yeah, but I was dealing with Dad and couldn’t answer.”
“And you haven’t called him back? Girl, come on. That man is hot .”
I scrunch my nose up as I hand Fia her mug of steaming coffee. She puts it down and adds some milk that she pulled out from the small fridge under the bar. I drink mine black. It’s easier that way. Learned to tolerate the bitterness of it when I started needing every second of the day to do things other than make fancy, sweet coffee. Cappuccinos were always my favorite. Dad bought me my own machine with a steamer attachment for Christmas some years back, but now it’s just decoration in the kitchen with a pile of dust on it like everything else.
“Should I text him?” I ask.
“Should you—yes!” Fia slaps the table. “Right now. Do it.”
“It’s not even six am yet!” I argue.
“So what? You can text at any hour of the night or morning or whatever.” She holds her hand out like she wants my phone.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say carefully.
“How many people do you text on a consistent basis?” She raises a brow. I don’t answer. “That’s what I thought. Trust me, it’s true. Let’s go, get your phone out and send that man a text before all the old people come in here and stink up the place.”
I huff out a laugh at her smart mouth. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull my phone from the pocket in my apron and open the text thread from him.
“What should I say?” I chew on my lip, thinking over the options. A good sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner could work.
“Tell him you think he’s hot!”
“I can’t say that!”
Fia scoffs. “Of course you can.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s too forward. I can’t do that.”
I stare down at my phone, trying to figure out what to say.
“Well, whatever you’re going to say, you better hurry up. We have one minute left.”
Damn…
I stare at his text and figure a polite response acknowledging that I got his text is the safest option. I’m not sure what I plan to do now that he has my number, and honestly, I don’t know why I gave it to him anyway. As repayment for my car? As if the man would take this instead of money? That’s laughable.
At first, I was thrilled that he wanted my number. I mean, Fia is right, the man is hot as hell. But I don’t have time for… well, anything. And I saw the way he flew outta my driveway the night he dropped me off. Not that I can blame him for that, but that’s my life. Can he handle that? Does he want to? Is he just looking for sex ?
He paid for my car and that’s a lot to do for someone if you’re just looking for sex, but of course he is expecting to be paid back. I should let him know I’ll do that. So yeah, I have some things I can say. Polite things. Nothing to make him think I want to date him because even though that sounds like a dream, it just can’t happen.
Me: Hey, sorry I missed your call. Just wanted to let you know I got your text. I’m working until two, but maybe we can talk after that? I’d like to discuss my car.
I hit send, then show it to Fia. She’s grinning when she looks at my phone, but it quickly falls from her face.
“What?” I ask.
“Boring,” she says, walking to the door and unlocking it.
“How is it boring? What do you mean?”
Before I can get an answer, a flood of regulars stream in, and I’m too busy to even remember that I sent him a text at all.