“Deacon and I work very well together. You have a gifted son, Mr. Girard. I’m sure you must be very proud of him.” I paused. “I know your parents, too. They’re wonderful people. They’ve been kind to me since I moved down here.”
“Oh, yeah? So did they tell you about me, their deadbeat disappointment of a son? Bet they didn’t. Bet they told you I was dead or something.” His lips curled. “They wish I was.”
“No, they’ve spoken well of you.” That wasn’t really a lie; Anna never disparaged her son, she only said his absence made her sad. “I know they miss you. Maybe if you’re well enough eventually, you could go stay on the farm with them for a while. Get to know them again. Wouldn’t you like to heal that relationship before you—” I stopped, horrified at what I’d been about to say. “Before it’s too late?” I amended.
“Before I croak, you mean?” Ted cackled and then he began to cough. I moved closer to help him sit up and then brought him water to drink. He allowed my aid, but once he’d drunk his fill of water, he pushed me away. “No way am I going to give up the ghost in that damn house. I lived the best part of my life away from it. Not gonna die there, no matter how happy it would make the old folks. They could talk about the prodigal son coming home at last.”
I wasn’t getting anywhere with this man, and I was beginning to understand Deacon’s misery this week. How must it be to look at that bitter face and know that it was his father? How could he work to try to treat the man who’d left his mother and forgotten his only child?
“If there’s nothing else I can do for you, Mr. Girard, I’ll let you get some sleep.” I reached for the remote. “Would you like me to turn off the television?”
“You just leave that alone, missy.” He reached over and snatched it from me. “Only good thing about this place. I get to watch my shows which I only get to see in the motels when we stop.”
I tilted my head. “Anna’s told me you’re a musician. You’ve been touring all these years?” Maybe the key to Ted Girard’s soft underbelly was to bring up his career.
“Yup. Toured with too many bands to mention.” His voice was hoarse. “My life is out on that road. The people who live in houses and never go anywhere—I don’t understand them. For me, it’s always been the open road, no matter what. It calls to me. There’s always a new place to go. New sights to see.”
“That was more important than your sick wife or your son?” I shook my head. “It wasn’t the music that drew you away?”
“Music’s just an excuse to travel. I’m a passable picker, but there’s plenty better than me. No, what made me valuable was that I didn’t make demands. Let me ride along for free, play some music at each stop, and I was a happy man.” He sighed, his eyes closing.
“Let me get your oxygen mask back on.” I adjusted the band and then tugged up his blanket. “I’ll let you sleep now. Good night, Mr. Girard.”
He didn’t respond, but I felt his eyes on me as I walked out of his room.
The hallway was silent except for the typical hospital sounds: the soft beeps of monitors, the whoosh of oxygen, the steps of nurses, techs, and orderlies doing their jobs. The light was dim since it was late. I went to my office to retrieve my handbag and then headed for the exit.
As late as it was, the air outside was still oppressive, making me glad that my cabin was air-conditioned and I wasn’t sleeping in my trailer anymore. I climbed into my car and began driving through town. At the stop sign where I should have turned to make my way out onto the country road that led to my property, though, I hesitated.
If I turned left, I’d be on my way home to my quiet, lonely cabin. I’d change into pajamas, climb into bed and go to sleep . . . alone. It was what I should probably do if I was smart.
But if I turned right, I’d go right past Deacon’s street, past his house, where I suspected he was sitting by himself, brooding over his father and not wanting to see or talk to anyone. He was probably drinking whiskey, which I knew was his favorite after-work indulgence. And it was very likely that he didn’t want any company.
I turned right anyway.
9
Deacon
I’d grown up in the country and was accustomed to the noises of the farm. Bugs chirping, crickets singing, frogs croaking, the groan of tree branches in the wind—I was used to all of those sounds. When I went away to college and then med school and then my residency in Gainesville, I’d learned to live with the city’s soundtrack: honking cars, the air brakes on buses, and people shouting in the street.
Living in the town of Harper Springs was some kind of happy medium, I decided as I sat in the dark of my living room, shaking the glass in my hand to hear the ice clink. I had the bugs and crickets from the farm along with the distant noise of cars and the occasional siren. Tonight, even though my windows were shut and the air conditioning was humming, I could hear the sound of a baseball game. My next-door neighbor was an older gentleman who liked to sit on his front porch and listen to the games on his ancient radio. Since he was more than slightly hard of hearing, he had that sucker cranked up to top volume. I could make out the play-by-play as if I were sitting next to him. Or maybe as if I were sitting at the game itself.
Sometimes, when I heard Lester on the porch, I wandered over with two bottles of beer and joined him. It was the neighborly thing to do, and I was well aware that the old guy was lonely since his sister had died last year. We never talked much on those evenings; we just sat and rocked and enjoyed the game and our beer.
Tonight, though, Lester, baseball, and beer weren’t tempting me at all. I preferred the silent living room, the comfort of my chair, and the taste of the whiskey in my glass.
Dropping my head against the back cushion, I let out a long breath. The past week had been brutal. The hospital, which was usually my sanctuary, had become a place I dreaded, thanks to my father’s presence. He was like a malignancy, I decided. Almost like cancer itself. And even if it made me a deplorable person and consigned me to the fires of hell, I hated him.
All of the tests that we’d run had confirmed what he’d told us and what I’d expected after seeing him. He had extensive-stage small cell lung cancer; it had spread to both lungs, three lymph nodes, and the fluid around the lungs. Without treatment, he didn’t have more than three months. Maybe six, but given the state of his overall health, that was doubtful. With treatment . . . I rubbed my jaw. A year? A little more? Who could say? Researchers were coming up with advanced treatments for this kind of cancer almost monthly, and that was good news. The question was whether or not any of those protocols would work for Ted.
A noise near the front of my house dragged me from my brooding. It sounded like a knock on the door, but I sure as hell wasn’t expecting anyone. Gram and Pop weren’t driving at night anymore if they could help it, and besides that, I’d been out to the farm earlier today, breaking the news of their son’s unexpected appearance in town . . . and of his diagnosis.
As I stood up, I decided that it might be Lester coming over to invite me to his porch. That would be unusual but not unheard of. For a moment, I considered ignoring the knock. If it was Lester, he’d go away pretty quickly when I didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone.
But on the off-chance that it might be something important, I forced myself to take a quick look out the side window and see who was there. When I did, my frown deepened even as I strode over to open the door.
“Emma. What are you doing here?”
