Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
She heard the whole truth in my voice. I know she did.
The half lie feels like a chink of distance between us that threatens to bottom out into the Grand Canyon. But I can’t think about that now. I just need to deal with my mother and see my father.
“Mother?” I call out. Where is she?
“Jack,” my mother says, her voice a little shakier than I’m used to hearing it. “Is that you?”
Greg appears in the corridor. “In here.”
“Jack,” my mother says as I enter the room. I glance around, expecting to see a bed, a patient—my father. Instead, there are four chairs around a low coffee table. A vase containing pink faux flowers sits in the middle on it.
“He’s next door,” my mother says, her voice wobbling. “On a ventilator.”
“A ventilator?” That didn’t sound good. “Is he going to be okay?”
My mother just stares into her lap, stifling a sob. My heart steps up, pounding against my rib cage, but I try to keep calm.
“What happened?” I ask. I’ve had no further information than when Greg first called me. “Is he okay?”
“Your father had a stroke,” my mother says, her eyes glassy.
The room tilts and my vision blurs. I fist my hands, trying to resist the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me. “How is he?” I glance between Greg and my mother. Why isn’t anyone saying anything? Were they keeping him alive until I got here?
My mother nods at Greg, giving him permission to speak. Usually my mother likes to control things. Things must be bad if she’s letting Greg speak for her.
“The doctors are still assessing him,” Greg says. “It was an acute ischemic stroke. They put him on a ventilator to…” He looks down at his phone. He’s obviously taken notes, which normally I would think was ridiculous, but now I’m grateful for. “In case he suffered a fit, according to the doctor. But he was conscious after the stroke. That’s a good sign.”
I let myself breathe for the first time in what seems like hours. “Good. So, he’ll recover.”
Greg flashes a glance at my mother and then addresses me. “They don’t have a prognosis at this time, but… the doctor did mention his age and said it would likely be a long road to recovery.”
It’s a fact that my father’s seventy-four. But before today, I never really considered him old. His schedule was packed from morning until night. He went into the office every day. He was out in the evening three or four times a week.
I thought he’d live forever.
Many men my father’s age are retired and spend their time playing golf and bridge. Not my father. He’s dedicated his life to the Alden family legacy.
“The first twenty-four hours are the most crucial,” Greg says. “The doctors want him off the ventilator after that. And they’ll do additional assessments and start rehab.”
“And obviously, he’ll have round-the-clock care,” I say. “The best that money can buy.” I pull in a breath. What can I be doing? Our family foundation built the children’s wing of this hospital. All the staff must know who he is. He’s going to get the very best care. But will it be enough?
My mother stifles a sob, and I take her in properly for the first time since I arrived. She’s pale, but then, she’s not wearing any makeup… and I try to remember if I’ve ever seen her not wearing makeup.
I don’t think I ever have.
Greg is staring at my mother, chewing on his lip. “I’ll go and see if I can get an update.” He excuses himself. I’m pretty sure he just wants to give my mother some time to compose herself and he’s being polite.
As a child, I never saw my mother until she emerged from her bedroom hair and makeup in place. I’d usually been up with the nannies for a while by then. Or later, I’d come back from a piano lesson or a tennis lesson to find her having tea and reading the newspaper with Dad, like I’d walked into a Norman Rockwell painting.
My mother and father are inseparable when my father isn’t at work.
I’ve never thought about it, but they must really love each other.
“Where have you been, Jack?” My mother looks up at me, her eyes red, an almost childlike expression on her face.
A wave of guilt travels through me. “I was in Colorado,” I say, as I take a seat next to her and put my hand over hers. “I got here as fast as I could.”
We’re not a family who ever had a tremendous amount of physical affection between us. But I want to try to comfort her. I half expect her to push my hand away, but she doesn’t.
Instead she places her other hand on top of mine. “I’m pleased you’re back.”