Chapter Fifteen
In life there were varying degrees of pain. In the last year I’d learned those variations were vast, ranging from tiny nicks that, while sharp at the time, faded quickly and easily scabbed over to deeper wounds that required time to heal.
Then there was the kind that flayed you open. A knife to the stomach that carved your insides, leaving you without oxygen because the pain was so immense.
Standing next to my dad’s bed—not his actual bed, the one he shared with my mother, but his new bed in the home that was not the one he shared with my mother—looking at the eight stitches down his forehead, clipping the corner of his eyebrow, was one of those moments.
The breath-stealing kind.
Even if those stitches were necessary because for one shining moment, Hank’s memory blinked back to life and he had a memory of his wife, which led to confusion about where he was and why.
The confusion was laced with frustration, taking the shining part out of the moment.
This also led to my father becoming disoriented, and he took a fall.
Not a bad one, an unfortunate one. He was close to a table and smacked his forehead on the way down.
But it wasn’t all about me seeing my dad in that bed with stitches, pumped full of pain meds that may or may not make him more disoriented when he woke up.
It wasn’t even all about my dad being in that bed.
It was the sorrow and worry on my mother’s face—that was the knife plunging into my chest. It was the sadness and grief coming from her that filled the room—that twisted the blade and left me bleeding.
“Momma,” I whispered.
“The doctor assured me it looks worse than it is.”
I closed my eyes, no longer able to stomach the sight of my father.
“No concussion,” she went on. “I shouldn’t have bothered you at work.”
With that ridiculous comment, my eyes popped open and drifted to her. “Of course you should’ve. I would’ve been upset if you hadn’t.”
“You do too much—”
“Mom.” I cut her off. “We’ve talked about this. There’s no such thing as doing too much for the people you love. And out of everyone in the world, I love you and Dad the most.”
My mom’s eyes filled with tears. She’d had enough too. It was time to get her out of her zonked-out-by-pain-killers husband’s room and on her way home. Not that sending her off to an empty house full of nothing but memories was any better, but there was nothing she could do for my dad.
“C’mon,” I said as I snaked my arm around her waist and guided her to the door. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Mom—”
“I ate before I came for my visit.”
As soon as I closed the door to my father’s room, my mom pulled a sneak attack the way only a mother could. “It was very kind of Ryan to bring you.”
Okay, so not so much a sneak attack as it was a fishing expedition.
The unfortunate part about this was, if I didn’t nibble, her parental antennae would perk up and fishing would turn into direct questions.
I could skirt around the truth, withhold all the facts, dance around a topic, but I wouldn’t outright lie to my mother.
“Yes. He’s a nice guy.”
I smiled at a pretty nurse with kind eyes and a sweet grin as she hustled passed us. I was glad the people who lived here had that. I was glad the facility was clean and warm and tried to be welcoming.
Still, I would be glad when I never had to set foot back into this place. I wanted to forget it existed, not for a day or two or three but forever. But never coming here again would mean I’d never see my father again.
I shoved that horrible thought out of my head.
“Handsome too,” my mom continued.
Understatement.
Though Ryan wasn’t handsome so much as he was hot, and a magician with his mouth, and he fucked like a god. Not that I’d ever tell my mother that, but it didn’t make it any less true.
Thankfully, she didn’t require my input before she went on. “Does he have a girlfriend?”
Ryan didn’t have a girlfriend, and I didn’t need to know about his parade of women to know he wasn’t currently committed to a woman. He might’ve been a nosy, pushy bastard, but there was no chance in hell he would’ve touched me if he had a woman.
“Not that I know of,” I hedged.
We were nearing the nurses’ station at the end of the hall, and my heart clenched.
This wing of Leisure Village felt different.
It looked more like a hospital, less like the assisted living wing we’d moved my dad into.
It was still as nice and tried its best to be inviting, comforting, but it was more clinical, more secure, which made it more obvious.
In an effort to thwart any further conversation about Ryan, I changed the subject.
“Did the doctor say anything else?”
My mom gave me a heavy sigh that didn’t state she knew what I was doing; it screamed her disapproval instead. But she was going to humor me, because she didn’t have the mental energy to argue with me, which made me feel guilty—but not enough to discuss Ryan and all the confusing feelings he evoked.
How was it possible to want to punch Ryan right in his sexy throat while at the same time curl up in his lap and beg him to hold me while I took a time-out from life.
I just needed a day or two or possibly three to sit in silence and breathe.
Just be without the world and its problems intruding.
Just to remember how life used to be.
“You can ask him yourself.” I followed my mother’s gaze across the lobby, then I physically followed her when she veered toward a tall, slender man who didn’t look old enough to be a doctor.
Or maybe it was that I was too old to still be a server and I needed to get my shit together and find an adult job.
The thought of being tied down to a career made my stomach revolt.
I wasn’t flighty or irresponsible or a hater of goal-oriented, career-driven people.
The opposite actually—I admired them. It was just that it wasn’t for me.
I didn’t want to sit behind a desk all day.
I didn’t want to spend four or eight years in school mastering a skill that would lead me to a profession I’d have to commit the rest of my life to.
I wanted the life I had—or that I used to have.
I had goals, they just weren’t conventional. I had dreams and hopes for my future, they just weren’t popular in today’s society. The good news was, no one but me had to approve of what I wanted my future to look like.
“Dr. Johnson,” my mom greeted. “This is my daughter, Chloe.”
“Chloe,” the too-young doctor returned with a smile.
Thankfully he didn’t tack on a “nice to meet you” when we both knew the circumstances behind our introduction were anything but nice.
They were horrid.
Neither did he assure me my father was in good hands or that he would heal, or any other pleasantry you’d expect from a doctor before he launched in.
Another boon.
And with the way my life had spiraled, I’d take all the bonuses I could get.
Big and small.
“Your father is quite the character,” he told me with a twitch of his lips. “He doesn’t like needles and made certain I knew how deep his dislike ran.”
“He’s always hated needles,” I muttered.
Another bizarre emotion—knowing Hank Baughman was the same man he’d always been, minus most of his memories.
And the ones he had left were quickly vanishing.
He was him, but not.
“Your father conveyed that with an impressive array of four-letter words.”
Dr. Johnson didn’t look offended, if the broad smile was anything to go by.
“He cursed at you?” I asked in shock.
“Not at me,” the doctor corrected. “At the needle. Your dad’s got quite the colorful sense of humor.”
Shot. To. The. Heart.
“He does,” I whispered.
He gave me another smile, this one full of kindness.
“I’ve given the nurses silicone gel. It’ll help with the scarring.” Dr. Johnson lost his grin and quietly told me, “I promise it looks worse than it is. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Will he remember the fall?” I asked.
“When I spoke to him, he remembers tripping and hitting the table. He doesn’t remember how it happened. Though he was in good spirits and told the nurse he was getting clumsy in his old age and might need a walker soon.”
More pain sliced through me. That was totally something my dad would say.
“Right,” I mumbled.
Dr. Johnson reached into his pocket and handed me his card. “If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
I had loads of concerns.
None of which the good doctor could help me with.
On that thought, I glanced around the lobby, looking for Ryan.
As I’d done a lot over the last ten-plus months, I did so lying to myself. The lies had started as fibs—small at first, like my dad wasn’t getting forgetful; he just had a lot going on. Then they transitioned into my dad’s lapses in memory are normal, he’s just getting older.
Then the delusions hit in full force and the lies became more grandiose—he’d get better, and when he did, the memories would return.
Even now knowing the truth, knowing this was how he’d end his days, the habit was hard to break.
Stopping would mean admitting there was no hope.
I’d done it so much I was good at it. When I went in search of Ryan, I told myself I was only looking for him because he was one of the many concerns I had preying on my mind.
The truth was, my mind had wandered to a scary place, a dangerous place, a forbidden place—wondering, if Ryan were standing next to me, if his big hand held mine, if I had his tall, strong frame to lean into, if I could borrow some of his strength, would it be easier?
A tad bit, a minuscule amount, a shade or degree.
Something. Anything to help ease the pain.
More honesty . . . I felt my stomach clench when I couldn’t find him.
But worse, there was a twinge in the left side of my chest. I wasn’t ready to go so far as to admit that feeling was my heart racing, but it was there, nonetheless.
And the longer I scanned the room with no sign of Ryan, the faster it pounded.
The thumping didn’t recede when I caught sight of him coming around the corner—it intensified.
I wasn’t sure which was more unnerving—the panic when I’d thought Ryan had left or the relief I felt when I’d realized he was still here.
What I was sure about was, the way his gaze held mine from across the lobby scared the hell out of me.
I didn’t have to think too hard to know I’d never been on the receiving end of such scrutiny.
The intensity of it both terrifying and magnificent.
A collision of sensations.
Before I could come to terms with all that made me feel, Ryan was prowling across the room with his eyes locked onto mine—assessing, searching, knowing.
He reached my side, and wordlessly his hand slipped into mine.
And that’s when I knew there was nothing in this world that would make coming to terms with my father’s illness easier—yet standing there holding Ryan’s hand, he somehow gave me the strength to keep my feet while my mother’s sadness soaked into my skin.
Which meant having Ryan at my side didn’t make it easier—but still it made it easier.