Chapter 4
T he next morning, I could tell my dad was anxious.
I’d planned to make eggs and sausage for him, one of his favorite breakfasts, but he only wanted a cup of yogurt.
It had been one of the foods I’d restocked, an easy meal when he wasn’t up for cooking.
I ate one of the apples I’d bought and didn’t say anything—because it was obvious dad wasn’t up for talking.
That made me wonder—was this treatment potentially dangerous?
I didn’t want to make him stress out any more than he possibly was, so I wasn’t going to ask.
But I would ask the people at the clinic when we got there.
“I’m going to get dressed,” I said to my father after tossing the apple core in the trash.
“Can I help you with anything before that?”
“No.” It wasn’t surprising—he was already dressed and ready to go.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” I kissed him on the cheek and then went to my room.
Digging through one of the suitcases for a fresh pair of panties, I found the journal I’d hidden.
The last journal of Constance Whittier…
the one I had yet to finish.
I’d been so busy getting my dad’s life back in order, I hadn’t thought about it once.
But I shoved it in my purse in case I had time to read in the waiting room at the clinic.
Once I was ready, I asked my dad for the address to the clinic, and he gave me all the paperwork he’d printed.
Then we walked out of the house and I locked the door behind us.
Dad, paused on the patio, asked, “Which car did you want to drive?”
I knew what he was asking: did I want to take my car or his?
I’d driven my car to the grocery store Tuesday morning and it had ridden rough.
Dad had said he’d started it once every few weeks to keep the battery charged and things running, but it apparently hadn’t been enough.
And my father owned a huge truck, one that had served him well back when he was going fishing regularly and used to do home repair projects.
Those days were long gone, though, but he couldn’t afford to get anything new.
I’d already asked Sinclair the night before about driving the Lexus to the appointment in Colorado Springs, and he’d given me his blessing.
Until then, I hadn’t even thought about it, but he said he’d had me added to his automobile insurance on Monday after I’d left.
The man sometimes thought of everything.
“We’re taking the Lexus.”
My dad’s eyes clouded over as a frown marred his face.
“That belongs to a Whittier, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. It belongs to my…boss, Sinclair.”
“I won’t ride in it.”
Now he was being stubborn.
“Dad…please. It drives smoothly and I’m used to it. I don’t trust my car to make it to the Springs and I hate driving your truck.” And, something I wasn’t about to say out loud, was dad wasn’t in shape to drive today.
In fact, I wondered when the last time was he had actually driven.
It would explain the state of the bare fridge and cupboards when I’d arrived.
I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Sinclair—that, even though he’d been angry at me, he’d allowed me to leave and tend to my father.
And he’d leant me this car to make a safe trip.
But I didn’t dare tell my father how our relationship had changed from employer/ employee—sworn enemies—to something far more intimate.
Even if he could find it in himself to understand, I couldn’t imagine him ever accepting it.
“Then we just won’t go.”
“ Dad ,” I said, hoping my voice was vehement enough, “I came down here to make sure you went. We’ve talked about this.” And we had.
When his primary care doctor had told him about this treatment earlier that summer, it had given my father more hope than he’d had in ages.
He was going if I had to drag him.
“I’m not setting foot in a vehicle that belongs to the man who ruined my life—or his son, if we’re going to split hairs. We’ve also talked about that.”
Every precious moment we discussed shortened our time frame to arrival—and I still wasn’t comfortable driving in cities.
As much as I hated the idea of lumbering around in that big truck, I said, “Fine. Give me your keys.”
What was it with stubborn men in my life?
We arrived at the clinic with plenty of time to spare but I needed a little time to calm down.
Not only had the traffic made me jittery, but dad’s truck didn’t do me any favors.
It wasn’t that it didn’t run well, because it ran just fine, despite its age—but it was lumbering and hulking.
I liked the feeling of looking over all the other cars, but I feared I would accidentally run them all over if I wasn’t careful.
Needless to say, I made as few lane changes as possible.
Now, we were seated in the waiting room.
After he’d handed over the completed paperwork he’d brought from home, they’d given dad a tablet so he could answer a few questions having to do with his health today, this very moment.
The journal in my purse felt like it was burning through to my lap—and then I thought I understood.
Constance wanted someone to read her words.
Maybe not at first.
Maybe her intention had simply been to record her days with the idea of looking back on them whenever she’d wanted.
But if it were true that she’d taken her own life as Edna had said, this journal might have been a cry for help in book form.
If it were, I couldn’t tell Sinclair.
He had no real memories of his mother, and I didn’t want to throw a layer of guilt or anger over that.
He’d likely heard that his mother had killed herself as well, but would he really want proof of it?
I thought not, especially because all I could remember him saying was that she’d died when he was young.
He’d never used the words suicide or killed herself .
Pulling me from my thoughts, my father said, “Would you take this back up there for me?”
“Sure.” Taking the tablet from him, I dropped my purse in the chair and approached the counter.
After a moment, the woman at the desk looked up and I handed it to her.
“You’ll take that back with you when the nurse calls you.”
“Oh. Thanks.” If I’d been paying attention when my father had checked in, I might have known that.
When I got back to the chair, I informed dad.
Then I asked, “Do you mind if I go back with you—just at first? I want to ask a few questions.”
Even though his brow furrowed a bit, he agreed.
Just five minutes later, a nurse in dark blue scrubs opened the door, calling my father back.
I rose with him, waiting as he used his walker to stand, and walked beside him, carrying the tablet.
When we got close to the door, I handed it to the nurse and said, “I’m his daughter. Is it okay if I come back here?”
“Of course. We know patients often find comfort with family nearby—and you’ll need to know a few next steps.” Then she addressed my father.
“Mr. Miller, we’re glad you made it today. I’ll be taking your vitals so we have a baseline. First, are you able to step on the scale?”
After she took my father’s weight, she led us to a private room where she took the tablet.
Then she took his blood pressure and placed an oximeter on his index finger.
When she finally sat down, she began typing on a keyboard while looking at a monitor on the wall turned toward her.
Before she left, she assured my dad she’d see him later but that the doctor would be in soon.
My goal back here was simple: I wanted to know how the infusions worked and how often he’d need to be here—and if these treatments were dangerous.
I’d already assured Sinclair I would be back, but I wanted to return with information.
I’d already planned to renegotiate our contract with the knowledge that he cared about me.
While I didn’t believe his feelings were as strong or as intense as mine, I knew I mattered enough that he would listen.
Not only did I need to be with my father when he had these treatments, but I wanted to come home every other weekend to cook and clean and shop if needed.
I knew Sinclair would gladly pay someone, but I didn’t think my father would agree to that.
And, in return, I would offer to have all those days tacked on to the end of my “sentence,” even though I didn’t usually work on weekends anyway—but I hoped it would make him agreeable.
Doing quick math in my head, I approximated that, over the course of ten years, it could add almost two more years to the contract…
but seeing how my father’s health had deteriorated since I’d last seen him, I suspected that would be the only way he could survive.
Soon, the doctor arrived in the room—a tall, fit man probably about my father’s age.
His light brown hair was trimmed short, perhaps to hide all the gray strands infiltrating the bunch, and the corner of his eyes had lines.
I could feel warmth and compassion from him, even before he offered his hand to shake my father’s, introducing himself as Dr.
North.
When he turned his focus to me, I told him my name and who I was.
After discussing much of my father’s health history with him and glancing at the computer on occasion, Dr.
North said, “You are an excellent candidate for this treatment.” Finally, he rotated the monitor on the wall so we could see it, going over my father’s most recent MRI.
I’d seen them before, the white areas—“lesions,” they called them.
Fortunately, the doctor used plain language to explain much of the procedure and what they hoped to accomplish.
“If you’re like most people with this treatment, you’ll experience fewer relapses—and, after a few treatments, we’ll have you get another MRI. Chances are your lesions will be reduced.”
I had never heard this promise before—but I knew what it all meant.
My dad’s eyes filled with tears but he didn’t say anything.
I asked, “Does that mean…he’ll be— healthy again?” I’d almost asked if he’d be normal but realized just how insensitive that sounded.
“Close. Some patients do experience relapses, but they’re few and far between.”
I could barely fathom the thought of my dad feeling vital and more like his old self.
What would that be like?
It sounded as if, even if he experienced future flare ups, he’d be in better shape than he was now.
For the past year and a half, he’d been on a steady decline, so this treatment did offer real hope.
The doctor continued.
“So here’s how it works. You’ll be here about four hours today, give or take.” As he went over everything they’d be doing, I tried to picture my father back to his old routine.
What if he had a garden again?
Replanted flowers in the front yard?
Went fishing?
I even pictured him working part-time again.
More than that, I hoped that he would be able to get out of Winchester—without my help.
Because I didn’t know when I’d be able to return full-time.
The doctor addressed me again, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“We recommend, for at least the first two infusions, that you keep a close eye on him the first two days.”
“Is there anything I should look for?”
“Well…it’s hard to say. We ask you to pay attention to anything out of the ordinary because, with the first infusion, we don’t know how a patient will react.”
My father asked, “What are possible side effects?”
Dr.
North smiled.
“I’m glad you asked. There are minor symptoms, of course, but there are more serious side effects—ones that, if you experience them, could be life-threatening.” As panicked as those words made me feel, I knew my dad felt the same way.
“If you develop a fast heartbeat, feel nausea or abdominal pain, or have signs of an allergic reaction, go straight to the emergency room. Of course, we’ll also need to know at some point, but you’ll need to get treated first.”
He continued going over the possible side effects, including respiratory infections and more, and I half expected my father to decide not to go through with the treatment—and I wouldn’t have blamed him.
The doctor assured us that most people experiencing the dangerous side effects were rare…
but there was always a chance and they wanted to be transparent about the risks.
When my father nodded stoically, I knew he wanted to take the chance.
It made me glad he wanted to embrace life again—especially since I could no longer be a real part of it.