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She brimmed with an idea about a family dealing with another health mishap among their ranks. Rhea sketched out a cast of characters who reminded her too much of the child stars who came together to grieve their abusive mother, but she didn’t care. Her emotions overran her ability to think of anything else original. She was stuck in this hospital cycle, and she might as well do something with it.
“Cassidy Quinton is the oldest daughter,”Rhea wrote in her notebook while her coffee cooled on the restaurant table.“Bold. Stoic. Divorced. Entrepreneur. Classic oldest child who had to figure out things on her own as more siblings came into the picture. She automatically assumes she is responsible for her father’s care, let alone paying for it.”
She sipped her coffee. Paige texted her, asking if she needed a ride home that day. Rhea kept writing.
“Sian Quinton is the youngest daughter. Brash, self-absorbed, completely in denial that she has any part in this.”
Paige texted again. This time she asked,“Do you need anything from the health store?”
“Graham Quinton is the middle child. The only reason he thinks he’s absolved of middle-child syndrome is because he was the boy his father always wanted. He sees himself as his father’s spokesperson in the family. Only he knows what Dad wanted, but he has no money and no influence outside of the family. Has control issues.”
Rhea stopped long enough to shake out a hand cramp. When she was comfortable enough to write again, she realized she had lost her thought.
So it went on for nearly two weeks, the length of time Danny’s insurance allowed him to stay. By that time, Rhea was taking him for daily walks around the hospital, which unfortunately only amounted to pushing him around in his wheelchair while an IV continued to drip beside them wherever they went. They often sat outside in one of the few nearby places where they didn’t have to stare at parked cars or nurses on their smoke breaks.
They often didn’t say much on those walks. Each excursion took enough out of Danny that he often stared at the greenery or the bright blue sky above his head. When they did talk, it was usually about recent local events or Rhea’s work. She tentatively shared that she was working on the bones of a new novel. Danny wanted to know more about it, but she hesitated to say too much – he might think it was about him.
“I don’t have three kids,” he curtly told her when she shared.
“You’re also not a former hotshot lawyer with a sizable inheritance to dole out.”
“Why are your characters always so much fancier than how we were? You should write more about the simple man. Even in LA, we’ve got those. Always have.”
“I know, Dad.” Rhea sighed. “Readers like characters who have ‘made it.’ When you take money troubles off the table for most people, it allows you to explore other things.”
“Not everything is about money, even when you’re poor.”
“I know, Dad.”
They sat in silence while a breeze rustled the few bushes growing around them.
“I’ll probably change the parent to a mom,” Rhea eventually said. “A completely self-made woman who came from nothing.”
“From an immigrant family,” Danny prompted.
“Sure. An immigrant family.”
“From Mexico.”
Rhea opened her mouth.
“Oh, make them Guatemalan, whatever. Point is, you’ve got all this other inspiration in your family to draw from.”
“I could make them Eastern European,” Rhea said. “That’s timely.”
“Sure, sure. Or you could make them Mexican.”
“Or I could make them Vietnamese. Taiwanese.” Rhea leaned in toward her father and narrowed her eyes. “Indian.”
“You could make them Mexican.”
“Or I could make them Mexican, sure!”
Danny laughed for the first time all day. It led to another round of coughing, but he composed himself. “I’m only saying, you don’t have to completely ignore what made your mother who she was because you’re writing about someone wasting away in the UCLA Medical Center. I think she’d be proud to know she inspired you to write about her family.”
“Wouldn’t they be my family, too?”
Danny sighed, hands slapping against his knees. His hospital gown fluttered with such intense movement. Rhea had already offered him her sweater to keep his lap warm, but she worried it wasn’t enough as the summer officially changed to fall. “It’s one of my biggest regrets,” he admitted. “You could have known your grandparents if I pushed for it more, but your mother had such a tumultuous relationship with them, even before we met. After the funeral… I was afraid you were too old for them to care about you. Last I heard, they had moved to Sacramento to be near extended family that had finally immigrated here.”
