Chapter 16
Tristan
We have private bunk rooms at the station, so we can technically sleep during shifts, though we’re always on call.
I didn’t sleep very well because my mind kept going back to the sight of the woman from my very first call. To her bruised and bloody face. To the way her sternum cracked beneath my hands as I tried to restart her heart.
Even in my dreams, I revisit the scene.
I’m bleary-eyed and yawning when I wave goodbye to my new coworkers at 7:00 a.m. the next morning. The next shift is on their way in, but I don’t have the energy to meet any of them.
I’m about to get in my car when Charlie jogs over to me. “Hey, Probie,” he says. I think I’m probably going to like Charlie. He teases a lot, but he’s got “older brother” energy.
“What’s up?” I say, barely stifling a yawn.
“Usually, we get breakfast at Bernadette’s after a shift. Wanna join? They’ve got the best fuckin’ omelets. And waffles. And, shit, their potatoes.”
All I want to do is collapse in my bed back at Dad and Bobbie’s house, but then I notice the others watching. Especially Nick. He raises his eyebrows, just barely, and it seems like a challenge, or maybe an invitation.
“You know what? I’m in,” I say. “They’d better have coffee.”
“The best diner coffee in the Bay Area,” Charlie promises. He jerks his head towards Captain Hyun’s whale-sized minivan. “C’mon, Cap drives us.”
? ? ?
There aren’t many things as ridiculous as six grown adults piled into a minivan. We make it work, even though we have to shove some of Captain Hyun’s kids’ toys and soccer equipment out of the way.
“Sorry about the mess!” Captain Hyun hollers towards the back.
We all insist that it’s fine, even as I have to battle for dominance with a pool noodle. I’m in the very back of the van with Charlie, Mila is riding shotgun, and Nick and Vinnie are in the bucket seats between us. It’s a tight squeeze.
“So, Probie,” Charlie says, “What did you think of day one?”
Fucking exhausting probably isn’t the best answer, so instead I say, “Felt like I learned a lot. I’m glad to be on this team.”
“And we’re glad to have you, kid!” Captain Hyun says.
She intimidated me a bit at first, but she’s growing on me. I get the feeling that Captain Hyun is very stern, but fair.
“You did great today, by the way,” she adds, and the others nod in agreement.
“Last probie we had was Vinnie, here,” Mila says, looking over her shoulder and knocking Vinnie on the leg. “He was a fucking mess.”
“I resent that,” Vinnie says airily.
“You forgot to put the truck in park,” Charlie hoots.
While the others laugh, Nick glances back at me.
It’s a quick look, a blink-and-you’ll miss it look, but I catch it, and when I do, my stomach does somersaults.
Checking on me like that is literally the smallest thing, but even knowing that he’s looking out, that he’s aware, it’s enough to make those damn butterflies dance in my stomach again.
Butterflies that I can’t, shouldn’t feel.
The flutter of attraction I feel for Nick mixes with guilt about Warren.
Sure, I know Warren would probably want me to move on, but even a year after his death, I feel guilty about it. It feels too soon.
Added to that, there’s the complication of us working together.
If I already felt guilty about being attracted to him, now it truly feels forbidden.
Impossible
A downright bad idea, one I should ignore. Not think about. Avoid as much as possible.
Nick Gutierrez? Off-fucking-limits.
“I think you’re going to fit in perfectly,” Nick says, once again turning his heavy gaze on me. This time, it’s not a vanishing glance. It’s steady, studying, assessing. “You already did great today.”
Charlie pats my shoulder. “Welcome to the fam, kid.”
I manage a shaky smile.
Nick is still looking at me, staring at me, and when I force myself to meet his gaze, he smiles. It’s barely more than a quirk at the corner of his full lips, but it’s there.
Captain Hyun barrels into a parking spot, throws the van in park, and says, “Let’s eat!”
? ? ?
Two hours later, I’m stuffed with what might actually be the world’s best breakfast food, and I want to take a nap until my thirtieth birthday.
Unfortunately, I already agreed to go with Dad and Bobbie to one of Dad’s appointments. They said I didn’t need to, but when I’ve been on the phone with them recently, I could tell they were getting stressed about the appointments.
Going with them to appointments like this is one of the reasons I moved home. I want to make their lives easier, lighten the load a little bit.
I drive back to Dad and Bobbie’s house—which I guess is my house now, too—park on the street, and shuffle up the steps. The door is unlocked, I let myself in, and hang my bag on a hook.
“Hey!” I shout. “I’m home!”
Bobbie’s voice floats from somewhere in the house. “There’s coffee in the pot if you want some! And I made muffins!”
Bless Bobbie. I may have just eaten my bodyweight in omelet and waffles, but there’s always room for Bobbie’s muffins.
I select a lemon poppyseed muffin, pour myself a large mug of coffee, and lean against the counter, picking the paper off the muffin. It’s fucking delicious.
Bobbie joins me in the kitchen, tying her long silver-blonde hair up in a ponytail.
She’s wearing a white blouse, wide-leg blue jeans, and black loafers.
Bobbie has always been more fashionable than Dad, but she’s helped him get better style.
It’s been nice seeing someone inspire and care for him that way.
“Hi,” Bobbie says, and gives me a quick hug. “How was the first shift?”
I don’t want to go into details, I don’t want to tell her about my failure to save the dead woman, so I say, “Not bad! It’ll definitely take some getting used to. It’s an intense schedule.” I yawn halfway through my words.
“You can stay here and sleep if you need to! It’s really no problem if you don’t come with us. We’re used to doing these checkups.”
“I know, but I don’t want you to have to do them alone.”
She smiles. I can see how tired she is. “That’s sweet, Tris. But we’ve got this.”
“I want to go,” I say firmly.
She nods once. “Okay. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
? ? ?
Dad’s appointments are with his neurologist’s office in Noe Valley. It has typical doctor’s office décor, a style I like to call clinical chic. Flat, neutral tone carpets, plasticky furniture, magazines from the last decade, fake plants that don’t even try to look real.
Dad is disgruntled about the whole thing. “I just had my last checkup,” he argued when Bobbie parked in one of the handicap spots.
“That was six months ago, dear.”
He nodded, expertly trying to hide his look of confusion. “Right.”
A kind woman in pomegranate-colored scrubs handles check-in and instructs us to wait until Dr. DeLaurentiis is ready.
A TV plays QVC with the volume off and the subtitles on. I glance at the magazines and don’t see anything interesting to read. There aren’t many other patients in the waiting room. The few who are here are all old, older than Dad. Several wear masks and use walkers.
Is this the future that awaits Dad? I suppose it is, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
“Mr. Cavanagh?” a nurse says.
We all look up.
The nurse standing in the doorway barely looks old enough to be out of high school. At some point, I started thinking people in their early twenties looked like children. When did that happen? Is that part of being almost thirty?
“Dr. DeLaurentiis is ready for you,” the child nurse continues. She has bright blonde hair and a brilliant smile. I know her type from nursing school.
She leads us to a private room with an examination table, two uncomfortable chairs, and a lot of pamphlets about memory care.
She completes a basic health screener, during which Bobbie gently corrects some of Dad’s answers or adds onto them, and I take rapid notes in a journal.
I want to be as helpful as I can. Neither Dad nor Bobbie has any medical background, and I know that there will be things I catch that they don’t.
“Dad,” I say, when the nurse leaves after letting us know that Dr. DeLaurentiis will be there shortly, “You have to take these questions seriously.”
He frowns at me. “I am.”
“Are you? This is serious.”
“Tristan,” Bobbie says, laying a hand on my arm.
I don’t press the issue, but I will not let Dad lie his way out of receiving the care he needs.
He’s a stubborn man—I wonder where I got it from?—and he doesn’t want to admit that he needs help. That his health is changing. That he is changing.
Even though I spent most of my nursing career in an ER and trauma center, I saw plenty of patients with Alzheimer’s, dementia, or related illnesses, and I know that one of the hardest things for them to accept is that their mental reality is changing.
“I know it’s serious,” Dad says softly. “I know.”
The door swings slowly open.
“Knock, knock,” a man says as he enters. He’s about Dad’s age, with well-groomed silver hair and a stubble beard. He looks like he stepped from the putting green to the office, barely having time to throw on a white coat.
“How’re we doing, folks?” Dr. DeLaurentiis asks. “Is this the famous Tristan I’ve heard so much about?”
I shake his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“Your dad tells me you’re a nurse?”
“Was a nurse,” Dad says. Now he remembers.
“I work for the San Francisco Fire Department now.”
“Ah, good for you.” He shifts his attention to Dad. “So, Cam, just a routine checkup today. Sound good?”
“We’re all good here, doc,” Dad says.
I notice an almost invisible glance between Bobbie and Dr. DeLaurentiis.
We’re not all good here, I think.
The doctor starts with the basic questions. Have you noticed any more memory difficulties lately? Has your daily routine changed at all? Any moments of confusion?
He directs his questions at Dad, but occasionally Bobbie jumps in, as she did during the nurse’s visit. I observe their answers while I take notes. From what I can tell, Dad is minimizing his symptoms, and Bobbie is doing her best to correct him.
Then we get to the questions that are more about Dad’s independence. Questions about him taking his medications, about his ability to drive, to handle finances, to cook, to garden. Here, I see the defensiveness bristle in Dad’s face.
“I’m fine,” he insists. “I’ve been doing all that stuff for years. Nothing’s changed.”
I can’t help myself.
“Dad,” I say gently, “Something has changed. That’s okay, but your doctor needs to know how things really are right now so he can help you.”
“I think you should wait outside,” Dad says abruptly, staring at me.
The words are a blow. “What?”
Bobbie nods gently, and Dr. DeLaurentiis is studiously avoiding my gaze.
“We’ll meet you in the waiting room when we’re done,” Bobbie says, and squeezes my hand.
That’s that. I see no room to argue, so I nod, snap my notebook shut, and walk out of the room.
My hands are shaking when I get to the waiting room, though I don’t know if it’s from frustration or exhaustion.
I find a seat by one of the stacks of magazines and pick one up at random, paging through old celebrity gossip.
Half an hour later, Dad and Bobbie reappear.
I wait until they’ve scheduled the next appointment, and then I stand silently and join them on the way out of the office.
None of us says anything until we’re in the car.
“You’re not my nurse,” Dad says in a low voice. “You’re my son.”
The words twist inside me, braiding anger and fear and hurt. “Dad—”
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do about my health,” he continues.
“Cam,” Bobbie interjects, “Tristan is here to help.”
“That isn’t helping!” Dad snaps.
I clench my jaw. “I moved home to be with you!” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.
Dad closes his eyes. I can almost imagine him counting to ten. He’s never been an angry man, but he is stubborn as hell.
“I know, bud. I know. Remember what I always told you when you were growing up? Sometimes you gotta help people the way they want to be helped.”
The old lesson stings on my skin.
He told me that many times when I was a kid. I always wanted to fix things, always wanted to help out, always wanted to make sure that there weren’t any problems anywhere. That no one was angry. No one was hurting.
“Sometimes,” I whisper, “You have to accept the love people are trying to give you. You don’t have to do it alone. You’ve got nothing to prove.”
“You don’t know that!” he snaps.
The force of his voice shocks me. And then something happens that I’ve only seen once before, at my grandmother’s funeral: Dad starts to cry.
He gets in the car before I can say anything else. Bobbie and I stand there for a moment.
She smiles sadly. “He loves you, Tris.”
I rub my face. “I know that. Never doubted it.” I look at her pleadingly. “I really am just trying to help.”
“I know you are. Right now, you have to trust him to ask for help when he needs it.”
I sigh. The weight of the last twenty-eight hours is heavy on my body. “You guys can take the car home. I think I’m gonna take a walk.” I need to clear my head.