Mira assented crisply. Emma closed her eyes.
“Of course, Deacon. I’d never tell them anything. That’s up to you.”
“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t, but I also realize they’re not only my grandparents—they’re your friends, too. But I don’t want them hurt more than they’re already going to be.”
She nodded. “I understand.” She glanced over my shoulder. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No. God, no.” I shook my head violently. “Go on with whatever you need to do. I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with Ted before, and this time isn’t going to be any different.”
“Okay. But I’m around if you need me.” She squeezed my hand and dropped it. Mira cast me one last sympathetic smile before she too moved on down the hall.
And then I walked into my father’s hospital room.
I hadn’t seen him in . . . Jesus, it had to be five years. Still, I saw right away what Mira had meant. He was gaunt beyond his typical skinniness, and his eyes were sunken in his face. But it was his color that told the story. His face was pallid, and when my eyes slid to his hands where they rested on the white hospital issue blanket, I noticed the telltale tinge of blue on the tips on his fingers.
“Deacon,” he wheezed, his eyes tracking me as I wandered slowly into the room. “There you are, son.”
I bit back my standard response to his use of that word. It was a constant source of contention between us during his infrequent visits. I hated that he called me son when he’d never been a real father to me, but he insisted on using that term, probably because he knew it irritated the hell out of me.
“Ted,” I returned evenly. “You don’t look so good. My head nurse tells me that you claim you’ve been diagnosed with cancer. Small cell lung cancer, to be exact. What’s that all about?”
His eyes drifted shut, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips which I was sure were dry from his heavy mouth breathing.
“Got sick back in the spring,” he answered me finally. “Think we were over Texas way then, but coulda been Oklahoma. Damn places, can’t tell where one ends and t’other starts.” He made a phlegmy noise that I assumed was meant to be laughter. “Anyway, thought I’d shake it off like I always do, but one night after a show, I couldn’t get off the stage. We was on the last number, and I just went down. Passed out. When I come to, I was in some emergency room. Told them I didn’t want to stay, but the boys, they insisted. Thought it was prob’ly emphysema or that COPD shit. Or maybe pneumonia. But no. Doc there said it was the big C. Told me I didn’t have a long time if I didn’t stay there and let ’em pump me full of poison. But I wasn’t gonna do that. No, sir.”
“So you left that hospital against medical advice?” I crossed my arms and leaned my hip into the wall, as far as I could get from my father and still hear him. “And when was that, exactly? When in the spring? Early spring, late spring . . .?”
“Don’t remember,” he snapped back at me. “Was warm but not too hot. Maybe . . . end of March. Start of April. I don’t know. One day looks like the other on the road. You don’t notice much the passing of time.”
I thought that was probably true, recalling that during my childhood, on the rare occasions that Ted stopped by the farm, he always expressed surprise at how much I’d grown, how much older I was. Maybe that was why never-ending travel appealed to him; he could fool himself into thinking that time was non-existent, and he himself was immortal.
He was wrong.
“All right.” I nodded. “So you left that hospital. Have you seen a doctor since? Gotten treatment anywhere? Done anything to address this, uh, cancer?”
“Boy, what kind of fool would lie about having the big C?” Ted scowled. “Why would I pretend to be sick with that?”
“Maybe the kind of fool whose son happens to be a doctor specializing in cancer treatment,” I returned. “The kind of fool who thinks he can weasel some money or something from that son.”
“Now, son, I ain’t that kind of stupid. I know the first thing you’re gonna do is run a bunch of your tests and see if I’m telling the truth. I’d be a right idiot to put myself through that, on the off-chance that you’ll toss me some bread.” He lifted his hand, and I noticed the tremor there. “Go on. Run your tests. The truth of the matter is, when I got the news back in Texas or wherever it was, I was in—” His bushy brows knit together. “What do they call that, when you don’t want to believe something’s true even though it is?”
“Denial?” I supplied.
“Yep, that’s it. Denial. I didn’t want to believe the docs there were right. I told myself they was pulling some con on me, thinking I had money and would pay to get better.”
“All appearances to the contrary,” I put in. If Ted heard my sarcasm, he ignored it.
“But then as we’ve gone on, I kept feeling worse and worse. Finally, old Roy—that’s the band I’m with now, Roy Cobbins and The Rodeos—old Roy come to me and said, Ted, you got to get yourself well. Let’s take you to a city where they can cut this out or give you pills or what have you. But I told him, no. If I’m gonna get cut open or something, I’m gonna do it where my son is. Because he’s the best.”
If I’d heard anyone else go on like this, I might have been gratified. But I was always suspicious of anything my father said.
“So you came right here, did you? Didn’t stop by the farm? Pop and Gram have no idea you’re in town?”
He moved his head back and forth on the pillow. “Nah. No use seeing them. They’d send me on my way to keep me from being with my own boy.”
“Now that’s a damn lie, and you know it.” I pointed at him, my voice lowering to a growl. “My grandparents—your parents—they never kept you from seeing me. Never, even when it would have been in my best interest or theirs to do so. No, they made sure I got to see whenever you were anywhere nearby, even if it was inconvenient, and even though they’d have to put up with me asking painful questions afterward. You know, things like, why doesn’t my dad stay? Doesn’t he love me enough to be a real father?” My hands curled into fists. “You can try to spin any other lie to me, Ted, but don’t you dare say one fucking word about my grandparents.”
“All right, all right.” He panted, and I watched the way his torso retracted when he breathed. “No need to be so touchy. Look. I’m here, and I want you to . . . treat me. Get me better, patch me up, and send me out on the road again. You won’t have to hear from me again once you do.”
