Page 3 of A Thin Line

“Hey, dad. Just wanted to see how you’re feeling.”

“Same old, you know. How’s everything going over there?”

Closing my eyes, I tried to picture my dream place—a semi-dark quiet room, spacious, filled only with beautiful works of art…and no other people. It helped for me to get myself there so I wouldn’t worry my father. He already knew Dr. R. was no fun to work for, but he often felt guilty that I had to deal with her. And, as much as it had pained me, I’d told him the truth about the Whittiers’s involvement with tonight’s event. If he’d have found out later and I hadn’t said anything, he would have been hurt that I hadn’t told him.

Unfortunately, it had hurt to tell him—because that family was the reason why our lives had been difficult.

So I wanted my voice to sound light and breezy when I told him the basics. “It’s fine. Stressful, but fine. It’s going to be busy here in a bit so I just wanted to check in with you.”

“Just the usual, princess. I’m having to use the walker today.”

That made me sad—he’d been having to use it more and more as the disease ravaged his muscles. “But you’re getting around okay?”

“Of course. You know I’m no quitter.”

“Yeah, I know, dad.”

“I was going to tell you later, but you sound like you could use a little good news: I heard back from that clinic in Colorado Springs.”

One thing I’d always give my father credit for—he never gave up. Ever since being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis ten years earlier, he’d fought to stay mobile and, even though he’d finally had to quit working, he’d applied for Social Security disability and eventually began receiving Medicare. He’d demanded the best treatment and always asked if new solutions were on the horizon. So when he gave me this news, I had to ask a question. “Which one?”

“The one that offers periodic infusions that mitigate symptoms. You know…the one my doctor thought I’d be a good candidate for?”

I didn’t remember. Maybe he’d forgotten to tell me. “Oh, yeah.”

“They want to see me in October for an evaluation and possible treatment. I know you might have classes, but would you be able to—”

“Of course, dad. Yes. Just let me know the date when I get home and I’ll put it in my calendar.”

The relief in his voice was palpable. “Thank you. They really want a family member with me.”

“Yeah. No problem. Anyway…will you be okay till I’m home?”

“Sure will. My game shows are starting shortly, and I just put dinner in the microwave.”

Forcing a smile, I asked, “Do you need me to get anything before I come home?”

“Nothing I can think of. Do you know when you’ll get here?”

“No idea. Don’t wait up for me.”

He chuckled and then I did too—because we both knew he would be up when I got there. “Try to have fun, princess.”

“I will. You too.”

“And remember, no matter what they say, you can’t always blame the sins of the father on the son.”

Oh, but I would. I hated Sinclair Whittier just as much as I hated the man who’d given him that name—because they were the ones who’d ruined my father’s life. I would never despise anyone more.

That, however, wasn’t what my father wanted to hear, and I didn’t have time for a lively debate. “I’ll probably be so busy I won’t even have to interact with him.” I hoped that was true, because I didn’t know if I’d be able to keep the contempt off my face—and considering Dr. Rakhimov worshipped that family more than her own dignity, that would not work in my favor. “Have a good night, dad.”

“I will. Do your best to have a good night.”

“See you later.”

I hung up the call and let out a long sigh before pulling myself up off the bench. Heading back into the air-conditioned building, I ignored my aching feet and hustled back to the simulation lab. All of this had already been in motion when I’d started classes for the first time last fall—they’d already broken ground and laid the foundation for the new wing that would house the simulation lab, so I didn’t know for certain how long the plan had been in place. I also didn’t know if Dr. R. had had a previous relationship with the Whittiers, but I did know that they’d long been benefactors of the school. Every time Dr. Rakhimov exclaimed that the nursing program was the only reason WCC thrived, I’d bite my tongue, because I was pretty sure it was due more to the Whittiers’s money than her efforts.

Soon, I was in the new wing, and the only things I could hear were soft electronic sounds and the click of my heels on the polished tile. The lab door was still open and I set a foot inside. “Jenna?” I called, concerned because she wasn’t in the main room. For all I knew, she was sleeping on a bed next to one of the patient dummies. “Where are you?”

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