Chapter Seven – Broken In #2
“You’re hurt,” I said quietly, glancing up at Bugsy, hoping for more information.
“The burn is second degree. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but other than that, physically, he’s okay.” Her tone was the same clipped one she used when handing off a patient to us in the ER.
“I don’t know what happened.” Dad’s words drew my attention back to him.
His voice was thick with years of smoking.
Dad wasn’t much of a drinker, and he hated drugs with a passion, but he lived off caffeine and cigarettes to ease the boredom of long days stuck behind the wheel of a semitruck.
He hadn’t stopped smoking once in my lifetime, not even after Mom’s cancer diagnosis.
Not even after the disease had stolen her from us.
Not even when I’d cried and told him I was scared of losing my only remaining parent.
“I don’t understand. What happened?” Dad’s brows furrowed together until they were one long, thick line, and my worry grew.
“It’ll be okay, Dad. Beckett said it was just the kitchen. It could have been worse,” I tried to soothe.
He looked away, seeming to disappear right before me as he said, “I just don’t know what happened, Marjorie.”
The world blurred in front of me. A ringing sounded in my ears.
He thought I was Mom?
Heavy steps behind me had me whirling around to find Beckett emerging from the house.
His facemask and helmet were gone, but he still wore his turnout gear with the SRFD logo emblazoned on the chest and back.
His gloves were shoved into the pockets of the jacket, and there was black ash coating his face. He looked like a superhero. A savior.
My savior. God… Chelsea was right. I’d let my friends save me.
And here he was, saving my family again.
Cleaning up a mess we’d made.
Beckett’s warm brown eyes met mine, concern written in them as he glanced from me to Dad and back.
He watched me closely, like he could pry my emotions out of me if he stared long enough, but I hid them behind the blank face I’d gotten good at showing him over the last few years out of pure self-preservation.
“Mr. Campbell,” Beckett stepped closer, looking down at my dad. “I think we’re almost done inside. We just need your statement about what happened so we can file the report for the insurance company.”
Oh God. Did Dad even have insurance? If he hadn’t been paying the mortgage, I somehow doubted he’d kept up with that either. What were we going to do?
Dad frowned, looking at Beckett, down to his gauzed hand, and then at me. “What happened, Marge?”
Beckett’s eyes snapped to mine, and neither of us looked away for a few painful seconds.
A new fear stabbed at me. Not because of the fire or the physical damage that had been done to the house, but because of my father.
And right on its heels, another selfish, awful thought followed.
I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life taking care of my father after I’d given up the dregs of my childhood caring for Mom and keeping my family afloat.
I didn’t want to drown while attempting to fix things I’d had no hand in creating.
I ground my teeth together, and pain shot through my straightened jaw right to my temple. It brought me back from the edge of a panic attack. It reminded me of what my family had sacrificed for me.
There was no way I was walking away from Dad now.
I’d made it through worse. I was an adult now and could handle these new problems far more easily than the ones I’d coped with as a kid. But this time, I wouldn’t drag my friends down with me while I did it.
? ? ?
Dad had fallen into a fretful sleep in the hospital bed, and seeing him there only exasperated the frailness I’d seen in him this morning. The panic I’d forced back earlier threatened to overwhelm me again, and my vision blurred with unshed tears.
“Maisey?” Meredith called.
I turned to find her concerned eyes looking at me from the doorway. She’d been kinder than she’d ever been before when I’d shown up at the hospital, not to start my shift but to get my dad checked out in the emergency room.
“Is it okay for me to let Beckett in?” she asked.
Beckett ignored her question and strode into the room anyway.
Meredith huffed even as I said, “It’s fine. Thank you.”
She left, and I took Beckett in as he made his way to me. He’d showered and changed but was still wearing his Class B uniform and had a radio on his shoulder. He was still on call. Still saving people.
The tears rushed in again, and I turned away quickly so he wouldn’t see them.
In two long strides, he was at my side, grabbing my hand and trying to pull me to him.
I resisted, putting the chair I’d been sitting in between us.
I couldn’t let him hold me. If I did, I’d break.
If I did, I’d forget my vows to go this alone.
To not drag the people I cared about into yet another mess the Campbells had made of their lives.
Beckett frowned. “What did the doctor say?”
“She wants to keep him for a day or two at least. He came around a bit. He knew who I was and the current date, but then he faded again when I asked about the fire. He kept mixing things up and grew agitated. The doctor doesn’t think he had another stroke, but he has a knot on the back of his head, so his memory loss could be because of that. ”
“Another stroke? He had a stroke? You never—”
“I just found out this morning that he crashed his rig after having one. He didn’t tell me. Didn’t call.” Hurt and anger and guilt all swarmed inside me like an insidious bug.
“Maise.” Beckett tugged at my arm, once again trying to draw me to him, but I pushed him away.
“Don’t. I can’t handle it right now, Beckett. I can’t fall apart.”
The noise he made at the back of his throat was close to a growl, and the look he gave me was intense—almost angry.
“All you’ve done is take care of him. It isn’t on you if he didn’t call. Maybe he was actually trying to do the right thing by handling things on his own for a change.”
I thought of the stack of bills on the kitchen table.
It seemed impossible that I’d be able to get my arms around it.
Dad certainly wouldn’t be able to do it on his own.
What on earth was I going to do with him if he lost the house?
Have him move into my studio with me? Figure out a way to draw on his retirement and Social Security early to get him his own apartment?
I tugged at my hair, drawing it across my jaw before realizing what I was doing and dropping it. “Do you know what started the fire?”
Beckett looked up and away before clearing his throat and saying, “Something on the stove.”
“The stove!” Shock slammed into me. “He was cooking? Dad never cooks.”
Beckett scratched the back of his neck and then shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what to say. The fire definitely started on the stove. Ron can tell us more after he finishes the investigation.”
My stomach lurched uncomfortably, and I pressed my hand against it.
If he’d called the county fire marshal, it had to be serious. Normally, Beckett could perform the basic investigations on his own.
“Why…why did you have to call Ron?”
His throat bobbed. I’d spent two decades learning everything there was to know about Beckett Romero, including all his tells, and now I knew he was nervous, holding back.
“I just want to make sure all the T’s are crossed and I’s are dotted so you don’t have an issue with the insurance claim.”
His reasons were solid, but I didn’t feel the relief I should have at his words, because I knew Beckett was holding back.
“If he even had insurance,” I said, rubbing my forehead in frustration.
“What?” Beckett’s voice dropped in surprise.
Dad let out a moan in his sleep, and I turned back to him, adjusting the IV line.
In his agitation earlier, he’d tried to tear it out.
He’d even threatened the staff, so we’d decided the benefits of a sedative had outweighed the possible complications after his recent stroke.
It would take a few hours for it to wear off, but hopefully, when it did, he’d be back to the calmer father I’d always known.
I straightened his blankets and then turned and tilted my head toward the hallway. I didn’t want to talk about my father where he could hear it, even in his subconscious.
Moving toward the door required stepping around Beckett, and when I did, my arm brushed against his.
As always, the simple touch of skin on skin curled through me.
Longing and desire. What would I give to lose myself in those feelings, if only for a few hours?
To forget for a few moments the way my life was crumbling around the edges once more?
But I wouldn’t. I’d figure this out. I’d stand on my own and take care of my family.
As we left the room, Tina glanced up from the nurse’s station. I didn’t want her to hear this conversation any more than I wanted my dad to in his subconscious, so I kept moving in the direction of the exit, and Beckett followed.
The trees on the hills behind us cast long shadows over the staff parking lot as we stepped out the rear entrance. The hours had slipped away while I’d been waiting for Dad’s test results, for him to recover his sanity, and for me to find answers to problems that had no easy solutions.
“What’s going on, Maisey?” Beckett asked.
I debated how much to tell him, but if Carter knew about the bank foreclosing, it would be all over Swift Rivers soon enough.
So, I explained what I’d learned this morning about the mortgage and Dad’s stack of bills while I paced the pebbled pathway from the hospital door to the parking lot and back.
Beckett watched, hands in his pockets, eyes penetrating and watchful.
“If, by some miracle, he paid the insurance, there’s a slim chance I can right the ship. I’ll talk to the bank, figure out a way to get him caught up on the mortgage. It’ll mean giving up my apartment and moving in with him so I can use my rent money to help with the bills.”
Beckett made a frustrated sound. Fury? Disgust?
They were all emotions I was feeling too. But they were coated with a healthy dose of guilt and a bucket of resignation.
Chelsea’s words this morning now felt like they’d been a premonition, because I would be moving back home. I’d be everything my sister had said—the dutiful daughter taking care of a father who might just take her down with him.
But I wouldn’t walk away from our dad.
Mom had sacrificed everything, even her relationship with Dad at times, to make sure I had whatever I needed.
She’d hate that he’d been left to struggle on his own as much as she’d hate that the house had fallen down around him.
Maybe it did make me a ridiculously dutiful daughter, or maybe I was simply showing loyalty to a dead parent and what she would have wanted.
Or maybe I was just doing the right thing for the person I loved, regardless of his flaws.
I wasn’t sure which of those things was true. Maybe all of them were.