Chapter 10
RUN
KAT
My fist hammers on the polished wood of the office door. I got here as soon as I could after Josh’s session, but it’s after six now. Surely nearing the end of typical office hours if not already past them. But I don’t care. My fist pounds over and over into the door of the private medical office.
And finally, blessedly, the door creaks open. A short, bald, and bespectacled man stands before me with a scandalized expression on his pinched face.
“Dr. Wagner?” I ask breathlessly, my fist still poised in the air mid-knock.
“Yes. What is the meaning of this?” the man asks.
“Dr. Wagner, my name is Katherine Pearson. My father was Lachlan Pearson, and I need to speak with you,” I say, rushing to explain.
Dr. Wagner frowns and nods his head, stating, “I’m sorry young lady, my office is closed for the day. You can contact me tomorrow morning starting at eight-thirty.”
And he goes to close the door.
My hand flies up to hold it open.
“Wait,” I say.
And I unfold the piece of paper clasped in my hand. It’s crumpled and slightly damp from the clamminess of my palm. I hold it up and show the man, throwing down my ace card.
“I know his death wasn’t a regular suicide.”
Dr. Wagner meets my eyes, a vague expression of sadness and regret mingling with his obvious frustration. He hesitates just a moment, before stepping aside to let me in.
“Very well. Come in.”
“Thank you,” I say as I lower the toxicology report and move into the swanky space. Jesus. Of course, this was the doctor my father had chosen. It looked more like a billionaire’s lawyer’s office, rather than an average MD.
Dr. Wagner closes the door and rounds to face me, looking cautious.
“Dr. Wagner, I need to ask you—is this your handwriting?” I hold up the scrap of paper, and point to his name and credentials.
“Heavens, no,” Dr. Wagner answers blankly, “I’m a medical doctor, Ms. Pearson. My writing is barely legible chicken scratch. It’s probably your father’s.”
I frown as I fold the report back up and slide it into my coat pocket. It was not Dad’s.
“Okay,” I reply, not sure if I believe him or not. “But you were my father’s doctor,” I press on, resolute in my need for answers.
“Yes, I was.”
“And what were you treating him for?” I demand.
“Ms. Pearson, I’m—I’m not entirely sure that I can release that information to you.”
“He’s dead!” I chirp. “And I’m his only remaining family,” I quickly add.
I balk internally at the half-truth. After all, Lachlan did have another daughter. But she was nowhere to be found, was she? Really, it was just me.
“Please,” I say plainly, aware that I haven’t even used the word with him yet. Looking into the doctor’s eyes, I try to convey my grief and my need, my need to know the truth.
Why did it seem like the universe was so hellbent on keeping it from me?
“He—he had cancer, right?” I ask, undeterred by the man’s silence. A long pause stretches out between us.
“Please, Dr. Wagner. Please,” I beg.
I had looked up the medications that my father had tested positive for listed on the tox report late last night. Most of the meds indicated treatment of middle to late stage cancer, of various different kinds.
My heart already knew what my head refused to accept. All I need now is for this man to confirm it. I need to hear it said aloud, to make it real.
Dr. Wagner heaves out a heavy sigh as he rounds the rectangular marble desk. He hesitates just another moment before lowering his eyes to the desk and finally speaking.
“Stage four pancreatic cancer,” he says softly, “your father was in the terminal stages, Ms. Pearson. Most of his prescriptions at the end were to reduce his pain and enhance his comfort.”
And there it was. Dad knew he was dying. And he wanted to do it on his terms.
Dropping my hands to my lap, I also drop my head, shaking it in disbelief. Dad’s suicide had been one thing. The shock, the guilt, the complete lack of understanding that had followed it.
But this? To have been battling cancer… and suffering… all alone? This was something else entirely. Something I didn’t know how to process or understand. It filled me with a familiar desire… the desire to run.
“How long?” I ask, breaking the momentary silence. The words leave my mouth before I even have time to think.
“How long what?” Dr. Wagner inquires.
“How long were you treating him?” I clarify.
“Ah. I believe I was his second or third opinion. He first came to me around six months ago.”
Six months. Six fucking months. And if this Dr. Wagner was his second or third opinion, that means that Dad had known about his diagnosis for a hell of a lot longer than that.
Why hadn’t he let me in on it? I could have moved in with him, helped him.
I would have ensured that he got the very best care in Washington. In the country! Fuck.
My hands curl into fists at my sides and I feel the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes.
“Thank you, Doctor,” my voice croaks out.
“You’re welcome,” he replies. And then, seemingly thinking to tack on, he adds, “And Ms. Pearson? I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Oh yeah. Me too, I think bitterly. But words feel stuck in my mouth. Bound by silence. A family fucking legacy, I think bitterly.
“Thank you,” I whisper. And quickly, I close the heavy office door, racing down the stairs before the tears spill onto my cheeks.
____________________
An hour later, I slam the shot glass down, and the bar spins around me. Shit.
It all started innocently enough. In a haze of fresh grief and confusion, I had made my way into the nearest bar I could find.
Sliding onto the leather barstool, I ordered my usual glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
I had sat and drank and thought. And then I thought some more.
And the more I thought, the more I drank.
A second glass of wine had turned into a third, and then somehow morphed into vodka martinis. Then vodka shots.
The bartender eyes me warily as I squint at the bill, struggling to correctly settle my tab. He offers to call me a cab, but I decline, promising him that I’m not driving.
I know I should be calling Bea. Like an hour ago, probably. But I don’t. I pull out my cell and attempt to type out a text to her instead.
My keyboard screen is all blurry, despite having my glasses on. I close one eye in an attempt to see the letters more clearly, but the best I manage to type out is:
ME: “hey B, I’mon my way over, need to talk and need to crash if that’s ok.XO”
I’m about to order myself a Lyft, when I suddenly think to check and see how far I actually am from Bea’s. Opening my maps app, I see that Bea’s apartment complex is only a twelve-minute walk from here. I can do that. And a brisk walk in the cool night air will do me some good.
Rather, it will help sober me up, I think.
Pulling on my long black trench coat, I cinch the belt around my waist and head out into the night, stumbling just a little as I reach the sidewalk.
Usually this time of year, there isn’t so much rain and cloud cover that you can’t look up and still see some starlight peeking through.
But according to the locals in the bar, it’s been an exceptionally rainy fall season here in Greenwood.
So tonight, it’s too dark and cloudy to see any stars.
The heavy mist settling in over the city adds to the feeling of foreboding I’ve felt in my bones ever since finding that fucking report.
The air is still and has a heavy, deadened quality to it.
I head off on foot toward the neighborhood known as East Hill, where Bea’s apartment lies at the southeast corner of.
Night has fallen fully now, and the smell of rain and woodsmoke lingers in the air.
I round a corner past a bustling bar, the sound of loud music and late-night revelry briefly pouring out of the doors.
I keep moving forward, thinking about “Joseph” aka Zayn, and what the hell I am going to do about him.
One thing at a time, I tell myself. First, I need to find a way to come to terms with my father’s diagnosis. It didn’t change the concrete things. He was still gone, and that was that. But what it did change was how I viewed him, and my relationship to him. It changed how he had viewed me.
I swallow hard as I round a corner past an ill-lit convenience store, and head into a quieter, less affluent part of town that I’m not as familiar with. There are several ways to take off from the main road, and checking my map again, I decide to keep to the right.
One minute quicker. Ha.
It’s directly after I make the turn that I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise. Slowing my steps, I turn to glance behind me. A lone, slender man walks a good distance behind me, his dark hoodie pulled up over his face. Shit. Something doesn’t feel right.
I whip back around and quicken my pace as I move down the street. There are no other pedestrians around. Willing myself not to panic, I think about ducking into an open shop or bar. But all the businesses ahead seem to be closed, their various neon signs dark.
I decide that my best bet will be to act brave, move quickly and hustle to make it to my destination as soon as possible. The effects of the alcohol begin to burn off as adrenaline pumps through my veins.
The road ahead forks off in two directions.
Following the GPS, I bear left, and I feel a slight incline under my feet.
A dark, dimly lit brick alleyway lies several hundred feet ahead.
I shift my head slightly to the left to surreptitiously glance behind me again.
I see the darkened figure still keeping pace. Fuck, I think.
I wish I had some pepper spray on me. I used to carry it with me everywhere when I lived in Seattle and worked for the State. Pretty sure it got thrown out or lost somewhere along the way in the move back to Greenwood, though.