Page 10 of Thick and Thin

My dad’s eyes clouded over as a frown marred his face. “That belongs to a Whittier, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. It belongs to my…boss, Sinclair.”

“I won’t ride in it.”

Now he was being stubborn. “Dad…please. It drives smoothly and I’m used to it. I don’t trust my car to make it to the Springs and I hate driving your truck.” And, something I wasn’t about to say out loud, was dad wasn’t in shape to drive today.

In fact, I wondered when the last time was he had actually driven. It would explain the state of the bare fridge and cupboards when I’d arrived. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Sinclair—that, even though he’d been angry at me, he’d allowed me to leave and tend to my father. And he’d leant me this car to make a safe trip.

But I didn’t dare tell my father how our relationship had changed from employer/ employee—sworn enemies—to something far more intimate. Even if he could find it in himself to understand, I couldn’t imagine him ever accepting it.

“Then we just won’t go.”

“Dad,” I said, hoping my voice was vehement enough, “I came down here to make sure you went. We’ve talked about this.” And we had. When his primary care doctor had told him about this treatment earlier that summer, it had given my father more hope than he’d had in ages.

He was going if I had to drag him.

“I’m not setting foot in a vehicle that belongs to the man who ruined my life—or his son, if we’re going to split hairs. We’ve also talked about that.”

Every precious moment we discussed shortened our time frame to arrival—and I still wasn’t comfortable driving in cities. As much as I hated the idea of lumbering around in that big truck, I said, “Fine. Give me your keys.”

What was it with stubborn men in my life?

We arrived at the clinic with plenty of time to spare but I needed a little time to calm down. Not only had the traffic made me jittery, but dad’s truck didn’t do me any favors. It wasn’t that it didn’t run well, because it ran just fine, despite its age—but it was lumbering and hulking. I liked the feeling of looking over all the other cars, but I feared I would accidentally run them all over if I wasn’t careful.

Needless to say, I made as few lane changes as possible.

Now, we were seated in the waiting room. After he’d handed over the completed paperwork he’d brought from home, they’d given dad a tablet so he could answer a few questions having to do with his health today, this very moment.

The journal in my purse felt like it was burning through to my lap—and then I thought I understood. Constance wanted someone to read her words. Maybe not at first. Maybe her intention had simply been to record her days with the idea of looking back on them whenever she’d wanted. But if it were true that she’d taken her own life as Edna had said, this journal might have been a cry for help in book form.

If it were, I couldn’t tell Sinclair. He had no real memories of his mother, and I didn’t want to throw a layer of guilt or anger over that. He’d likely heard that his mother had killed herself as well, but would he really want proof of it?

I thought not, especially because all I could remember him saying was that she’d died when he was young. He’d never used the words suicide or killed herself.

Pulling me from my thoughts, my father said, “Would you take this back up there for me?”

“Sure.” Taking the tablet from him, I dropped my purse in the chair and approached the counter. After a moment, the woman at the desk looked up and I handed it to her.

“You’ll take that back with you when the nurse calls you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” If I’d been paying attention when my father had checked in, I might have known that.

When I got back to the chair, I informed dad. Then I asked, “Do you mind if I go back with you—just at first? I want to ask a few questions.”

Even though his brow furrowed a bit, he agreed.

Just five minutes later, a nurse in dark blue scrubs opened the door, calling my father back. I rose with him, waiting as he used his walker to stand, and walked beside him, carrying the tablet.

When we got close to the door, I handed it to the nurse and said, “I’m his daughter. Is it okay if I come back here?”

“Of course. We know patients often find comfort with family nearby—and you’ll need to know a few next steps.” Then she addressed my father. “Mr. Miller, we’re glad you made it today. I’ll be taking your vitals so we have a baseline. First, are you able to step on the scale?”

After she took my father’s weight, she led us to a private room where she took the tablet. Then she took his blood pressure and placed an oximeter on his index finger. When she finally sat down, she began typing on a keyboard while looking at a monitor on the wall turned toward her. Before she left, she assured my dad she’d see him later but that the doctor would be in soon.

My goal back here was simple: I wanted to know how the infusions worked and how often he’d need to be here—and if these treatments were dangerous. I’d already assured Sinclair I would be back, but I wanted to return with information. I’d already planned to renegotiate our contract with the knowledge that he cared about me. While I didn’t believe his feelings were as strong or as intense as mine, I knew I mattered enough that he would listen. Not only did I need to be with my father when he had these treatments, but I wanted to come home every other weekend to cook and clean and shop if needed. I knew Sinclair would gladly pay someone, but I didn’t think my father would agree to that.

And, in return, I would offer to have all those days tacked on to the end of my “sentence,” even though I didn’t usually work on weekends anyway—but I hoped it would make him agreeable. Doing quick math in my head, I approximated that, over the course of ten years, it could add almost two more years to the contract…but seeing how my father’s health had deteriorated since I’d last seen him, I suspected that would be the only way he could survive.

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