Page 38 of Remy

“Observation of what?” I ask. “I haven’t been told why he’s here.”

“He didn’t call you while in the ER?”

“No.” I wrap my arms around my middle. “I don’t even understand why he’s on the oncology ward.”

Her expression fills with pained sympathy. “I see. He’s a closed-door kind of dad. I have one of those, too.”

A chime dings and 207 alights from an illuminated sign a little farther down the hall, alerting the nurse to a patient’s call.

She shifts to take in the digits. “I’m sorry. I have to get back to Mrs. Slocum before she wakes the entire ward. But don’t worry, Carlo is doing great.” She backtracks. “Apparently, he had a dizzy spell and fell quite hard onto the corner of a cabinet. And when he lives alone, it’s better to be safe than?—”

“Nurse,” a frail female voice calls from down the hall.

The woman winces. “Mrs. Slocum really does need me.” She continues backtracking. “The doctor will do his rounds in a few hours and can fill you in on all the finer details. Until then, sit with your father and try to get some rest.”

“But—”

“I’m so sorry.” She raises her hands in apology, frantically retreating. “I really need to get to my patient. Maybe one of the other nurses…”

I sigh and nod. “It’s all right. I’ll wait for the doctor.”

She gives another pained smile and turns on her heel, quickly disappearing into room 207.

I turn back to my dad, the snippets of information I’ve received haunting me as I watch him sleep.

Due to the circumstances… A closed-door kind of dad… All the finer details.

What finer details? What circumstances?

I drag myself inside the room and stop at the foot of his bed.

He rests soundly, his lips gaping. A dreaded mouth-breather, my mom would always say. But he seems healthy enough.

Tired, yes. Run down, definitely.

Yet surely not suffering from cancer, right?

I scan the room, finding a chair in the corner, and drag it to his bedside. I sit next to him, my weariness bone-deep as I attempt to piece together the puzzle, not only about his health but his connection to the man who made me a murderer.

“What the hell is going on, Dad?” I whisper.

I brush my fingers over his, the contact pulling at my heartstrings.

I don’t want to wake him, but I need to feel his warmth. His presence. To have a connection to the living instead of the cold isolation of death.

“What are you hiding from me?” I ask.

He whimpers. Stirs.

“It’s okay. Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.” I stare at him until my eyes ache. My back, too. I try to see all the things I might have missed over the past months. The secrets he’s hidden.

Did he willingly step into an illegal arrangement with Remy’s family?

I huff a tortured laugh. No. That’s impossible.

My father’s not a bad man.

He sponsors Little League teams. Donates to charity. Refuses to charge for services on infant funerals.

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