AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The realization that Dad still needs twenty-four-hour care brings me up short. Is he that incapacitated? And where is Destiny? Probably with her friends, moaning that she didn’t sign up for this. Did no one warn her that seventy-year-old men sometimes develop health issues?
Back it up, Nica. You have no idea what Destiny is thinking. Just because she’s not here in his time of need doesn’t mean—oh, who am I trying to fool? That’s exactly what it means. She was here for the good times, the fame, the money. But when it gets tough, she’s gone.
I pull up Instagram as I walk, checking Destiny’s recent posts. As I expected, there’s no mention of my dad. She’s apparently been in Las Vegas drinking and gambling away her sorrows since she left Dad here with the hired help.
I step into the shadows cast by the huge garage and text Justin. After a moment, one of the garage doors ratchets up and I duck inside. The vast space is empty except for the Mercedes. I have the classic Porsche, of course, and Destiny drove away in the red one. The racing car is in the second garage at the back of the two-acre property. And the last stall holds a dilapidated Nissan. That must be Justin’s—my dad certainly doesn’t own it.
Justin opens the inside door, and I hurry up the steps to the back hall. “Where’s the Land Rover?”
He sticks his head into the garage, as if I might have overlooked the vehicle, then shrugs. “I dunno. There’s only been the one car since I got here. There should be more?”
“Last time I visited, he had a big gray Range Rover. That was in April. Maybe he got rid of it.” I follow him into the house, trying to remember if it was here when I took the Porsche, but I got nothing. We pass the closed door to the laundry room and cross the huge kitchen.
He stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns around. “I should warn you—he doesn’t look like he does in the movies.”
I half-smile. “He hasn’t looked like that guy most of my life. He still fakes it pretty well in public, but much as he’d like to deny it, he’s getting older.”
He puts a hand on my arm. “That’s not what I meant. The stroke changed him. It primarily affected his left side, which is difficult since he’s left-handed. A physical therapist comes in every day to work with him, and we make sure he does his exercises on the weekend. Speech is difficult—it takes a lot of time and effort to say anything.”
Alarm must show on my face because he pats my arm. “Just remember, he’s still your father. His mind is in good shape.”
“I knew there were some significant physical effects—I saw him at the hospital. But I thought he’d be better by now.”
“He’s definitely better. But he may never get back to how he was.” He turns and leads me toward the master bedroom. When we reach the door, he holds up a hand, telling me to wait here. Then he goes in, speaking cheerfully. “Good morning, Mr. Holmes. How are you today?” He stands beside the bed, blocking my view of the occupant.
A low, slurred mumble answers, sending a trickle of dread down my throat. The voice is my father’s but sounds completely unlike his usual crisp delivery.
“I have a guest for you today.” Justin waves for me to come closer.
I put my best “everything is fabulous” smile on my face and move around Justin to the bedside. My father lies propped up amid the rumpled sheets, looking small and old. His powerful frame looks collapsed. His face is wrinkled, and a shaggy fringe of wiry gray hair sticks out above his ears, leaving the top bald. Except for the few days in the hospital, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him without his hairpiece. Digitally faked photos appear on the tabloids at the grocery checkout from time to time, but in real life, he never leaves his room without it.
“Dad, how are you?”
At the sound of my voice, his eyes light up, and he shifts his head to look at me. The left side of his face is droopy—as if a wax mask got too close to a flame. “Nica! I’m so glad to see you. I thought you’d abandoned your old dad.”
Still passive-aggressive, I see. “No, Dad. I’ve been here since the stroke. But you told the nurses not to let me in.”
Consternation ripples across the right side of his face. “I never said any such thing. James, what is this all about?”
“It’s Justin, sir.”
Dad makes an irritable sound, and Justin continues. “You know we’re monitoring your memory, sir. Not being able to remember caregivers’ names is one of the signs we watch for.”
“James, Justin, Joseph. Whatever.” His lips compress, but only on the one side, in an eerie, movie-makeup way. “I pay your salary. I’ll call you Steve if it suits me.”
I cringe. “Dad! You might not want to piss off the people who are feeding you. Besides, skilled care is hard to find. You can’t afford to have Justin quit.” I turn to the younger man. “Who told you John and Maddie and I weren’t allowed to come in?”
He crosses to the desk and picks up a thick stack of papers. “This is a copy of the contract on file at Home Health Aides. It’s signed by Mrs. Holmes.” He pages through and pulls out a sheet. “This is the special instructions page. It specifies no guests except Richard Lewis and Tony Aldrich.” Richard is one of Dad’s lawyers, and Tony is his agent. Justin pulls out a second sheet. “This page specifically denies access to Nicholas John Holmes II, Nica Dolores Holmes, and Madelyn Angelina Holmes.”
“Let me see that.” Dad’s left hand wiggles but doesn’t move. His jaw clenches, then he lifts his right hand. Justin gives him the papers, then slides Dad’s reading glasses carefully onto his face. Dad harrumphs and fidgets, demanding better light. Justin flicks on the bedside lamp and steps back. “What was she thinking?” He slowly lifts his left arm and grasps the pages in his resistant fingers, but they slide away. “Someone tear this up!”
“It won’t do any good, Dad.” I take the pages from him and rip them in half anyway. “This is just a copy. You’ll need to talk to the folks in the office.”
“Actually, Mrs. Holmes will need to talk to them. According to current medical records, she’s making legal decisions for your father now.”
“That’s ridiculous.” The words grow more slurred the more agitated he gets. “Nica, get Richard on the phone.” He picks at the blanket with weak fingers.
“I’ll call him. Why don’t you get some rest?” I pat his hand, but he pulls it away.
