Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set

by Richard Paul Evans

  The austerity of his room highlighted what few pieces of art he possessed. On top of his bed stand was a statue I’d never forget—a twelve-inch resin replica of Rodin’s The Kiss. The lovers are, of course, nude, and, when I was a boy, the figurine embarrassed me more than I could bear. I remember once sneaking into my father’s room with McKale. I had told her about the statue and, to my dismay (actually, horror), she said she wanted to see it. We stood there, next to each other, just staring. Finally McKale said, “It’s beautiful.”

  I was dumbstruck. In the sexual naïveté of youth I had just figured that my dad was a pervert. Now McKale was too? Or maybe something was wrong with me. It was all so confusing. “Really?” I finally said.

  “Someday I want to kiss someone like that.”

  Hearing her say that made me feel funny inside—something I wouldn’t understand for a few more years.

  On the wall closest to the foot of the bed was a homemade decoupage plaque, an uncharacteristically crafty piece my father had made for my mother when they were poor and first married.

  Kate,

  Wherever you are, wherever you go, I love you and I always will.

  -Bob

  Something was different about the plaque. There had once been a seashell mounted on the side, but it was now gone, leaving an exposed patch of faded wood and hard, yellowed resin. I looked around on the floor, wondering if the shell had fallen off, but it wasn’t there. This was a detail my father would not have missed. It bothered me that the shell was missing.

  Outside of the statue, I suppose the plaque was about the only evidence I had that my father was capable of romance—not that the lack of evidence bothered me. The idea of parents having a romantic relationship has been nauseating children for millennia.

  I knew my parents locked their door now and then, and I had some idea that something dodgy might be going on inside, but, again, to a child that doesn’t equate to romance. Just weirdness. So the fact that I never saw my father be affectionate with my mom didn’t register with me until I was older and had started dating McKale. One night I asked my father why I had never seen him kiss Mom.

  “We kissed. It just wasn’t any of your business,” he said gruffly. “Or anyone else’s.”

  For so many years my father had slept without the warmth of a wife. My heart hurt for him and his years of loneliness. No wonder he had wanted me back.

  On his nightstand was something out of place—a white plastic binder. I walked over and picked it up.

  CHRISTOFFERSEN FAMILY HISTORY

  Compiled by Robert A. Christoffersen

  My father had never told me that he was working on a family history. I opened the binder. The title page read:

  CHRISTOFFERSEN FAMILY HISTORY

  (1882–20—)

  I turned the page. There was a drawing of a five-generation family tree.

  The next page was an official-looking genealogical form that started with me and went back four generations. In spite of my exhaustion I wanted to read on, but I considered that perhaps my father meant to surprise me with it. Why else wouldn’t he have told me about such a major project?

  I turned out the light and walked down the hall to the guest room. I pulled off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor near the door, then climbed into bed.

  As I lay there in the dark looking up at the ceiling, my mind reeled with questions. How was this all going to play out? How long would it be until my father came home again? Why did I feel like such a stranger in the home I grew up in?

  The house didn’t feel right without my father. He needed to get better. He needed to come home. Something told me that he wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  My father has more women waiting outside his door than a Nordstrom’s before a sale. I wonder why he’s never been caught.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I woke the next morning with the sun. I hadn’t checked my watch before bed, but I had probably gotten less than five hours of rest. I was more eager to see my father than I was to sleep. I took a quick shower and shaved, then dressed in the last of my clean clothes—a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.

  I dumped my pack out onto the laundry room floor, threw my socks, underwear, and T-shirts into the washing machine, added the requisite chemicals, and turned it on.

  Then I checked the garage. I was glad to find my father’s twelve-year-old olive-green Buick Riviera parked inside. I went back to the kitchen and looked for the car keys in the drawer where he always kept them, but they weren’t there. Then I remembered that someone else must have driven the car home. I went back out to the garage and found the keys on the driver’s seat. I put them in my pocket, then texted Nicole.

  Have car. Meet you at hospital.

  She texted back almost immediately.

  Be there in 45

  I looked inside the refrigerator for something to eat. My father kept a lean fridge, and, besides the usual condiments, there was only fruit, milk, an open box of baking soda, and two packages of batteries.

  In the pantry there were two boxes of cereal, Cheerios and Wheaties. As a boy I’d begged my father for the sugar cereals—Cap’n Crunch, Trix, the good stuff—but he never gave in. My father was anti-sugar long before the cereal manufacturers began pulling the word from the front of their boxes.

  I poured myself a bowl of Wheaties, drowned it in milk, and wolfed it down, wondering what my father found so remarkable about the cereal. It occurred to me that that was probably the point—it was completely unremarkable, as practical a use of grain as imaginable. I put my bowl in the sink, then turned off all the lights in the house. It was time to go see my father.

  As I opened the front door I was surprised to find a woman standing on the front porch. She was in her late forties and attractive. She was dressed in a form-fitting, baby-blue running outfit, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was holding a basket of muffins. I must have looked surprised.

  “I’m sorry to startle you,” she said. “You must be Alan.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. Is your father home?”

  “No. He’s not here.”

  She frowned. “I heard that he”—she grimaced—“had some health problems . . . When I saw the lights on, I thought maybe he was back. How is he?”

  “He’s had a heart attack, but outside of that I don’t know. I’m headed to the hospital now.”

  “I won’t keep you,” she said, holding out her basket. “I baked some muffins for your father. Please tell him that Susie sends her love and best wishes.”

  “And muffins,” I added, taking the offering. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you. Bye.”

  She turned and walked back to the road. I wondered how many women my dad had chasing him. I’d wager dozens. He was handsome, fit, and solid as a savings bond. I locked the door, then drove my father’s Buick to the hospital.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  The doctor has informed me that what my father has suffered is sometimes called “the widow maker.” In my father’s case the term is irrelevant.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  The Huntington Hospital was less than a fifteen-minute drive from my father’s house. In spite of its age, the hospital was modern looking and bright—well lit from an abundance of window space. I took the elevator to the second floor and walked up to the nurses’ station. The nurse sitting behind the counter glanced at the basket of muffins, then back at me. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see my father. Robert Christoffersen.”

  “Robert Christoffersen,” she repeated. She looked at her screen while she typed in the name. “Your father’s doctor is in this morning. I have a note that you’d like a consultation. Would you like me to page him?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  As I stood there, Nicole walked out of the elevator. Even though her eyes were still heavy, she looked p
retty with her hair pulled back. She smiled when she saw me.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Good morning,” she echoed.

  I set the muffins down on the counter and we hugged.

  “Have you seen your father?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  The nurse said, “Excuse me. Dr. Witt is on his way.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. I turned back to Nicole. “I’m going to meet with the doctor first.”

  She grinned. “Looks like you stayed up to bake muffins.”

  “Yeah, right. A woman came over this morning bearing gifts.”

  “I’m not surprised. Your father has women chasing him from all over,” Nicole said.

  Just then a man wearing a white coat over mint-green scrubs walked up. He was tall and thin with slightly graying temples. He was probably only a few years older than me. “Are you Mr. Christoffersen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Witt,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Call me Alan,” I said.

  He looked at Nicole and smiled. “This is your wife?”

  “No,” Nicole said. “I’m a friend of the family.”

  He nodded. “All right, let’s find a room to talk.”

  I retrieved the basket of muffins, and Nicole and I followed the doctor down the hallway until he stopped and opened a door. “This will do.”

  Nicole touched my arm. “May I listen in?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Have a seat,” the doctor said, sitting down on an examination stool. His demeanor turned more serious. “I don’t know how much you already know, so I’m just going to walk you through the events of the past few days. Your father has suffered a serious heart attack. When he arrived in emergency we ran a catheter up through his femoral artery to his heart, looking for blockages. We found one, so we placed a stent in the artery to open it and allow the blood to flow through. He was then brought up here to the ICU, where we started him on medications to help his heart pump.

  “The next morning we ran an echocardiogram. We do this to make sure the entire heart is functioning normally, or, if it isn’t, to find where there might be muscle damage.” His expression fell a little. “Frankly, what we found wasn’t good. What your father had was a very serious type of heart attack—a blockage to the LAD.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “LAD stands for left anterior descending artery. This type of blockage is sometimes called the widow maker, because the LAD is responsible for supplying blood to the left ventricle, which is primarily responsible for pumping blood to the rest of the body. If this area of the heart is oxygen deprived for a long time, the heart won’t pump effectively, which is what we term heart failure. There’s been damage; we’re just not sure of the extent.”

  Nicole looked afraid.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  The doctor breathed out slowly. “Right now, it’s a bit of a game of wait and see. As I said, we’ve got him on medications to help his heart pump. As long as he’s being given these medications he’ll have to be monitored closely, which means he’ll be required to stay in critical care. If his condition improves, we might send him to a step-down unit. But for now, we just need to see how his body responds to his treatment. Fortunately, aside from his heart issues, your father is in good physical condition. Otherwise he probably wouldn’t still be with us.”

  Nicole took my hand. The doctor looked at her, then back at me. “I’m sorry the news isn’t better. But your father’s a strong man. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him recover. I’ll keep you informed. Are you in town for a while?”

  “Indefinitely,” I replied.

  “Good. It always helps to have family near. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Nicole said.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied. He looked at us for a moment, then said, “I need to check on a patient. You’re welcome to stay in here if you like.”

  “Thank you,” Nicole said again. He smiled at her, then stood and walked out of the room, leaving my head spinning a little. Nicole wiped a tear back from her cheek.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should be comforting you.”

  After a moment I stood. “I’m going to go see him now. Do you want to come?”

  She stood too, then grabbed a couple of tissues from a box on the counter and wiped her eyes. “You go ahead. You two need some time to catch up.” As I started to walk out she said, “Don’t forget the muffins.”

  I grabbed the basket from the counter and walked down the hall to my father’s room. I set the muffins on a stand near his bed, then stood at his side, watching him. A monitor beeped with his heart, and I could see its motion on a digital screen. My father’s life was that jagged little green line on the monitor.

  It was several minutes before his eyes flickered, then opened. For a moment he just looked at me, as if he wasn’t sure who I was.

  “Hi,” I said softly.

  He swallowed, then pursed his lips, wetting them with his tongue. “What are you doing here?”

  “Nicole called.”

  “Did you finish your walk?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Nicole called.”

  “You came all the way back because I was in here?”

  “Of course I did.”

  He closed his eyes again and slowly breathed out. “You should have finished your walk. Let the dead bury the dead.”

  “You’re not dead,” I said.

  “Not yet,” he replied.

  I raked my hair back with my fingers. “What does that mean anyway? The dead don’t do burials. The dead don’t do anything but rot.”

  “No one knows,” he said. “It’s in the Bible.”

  “Since when do you read the Bible?”

  “I read a lot of things,” he said. “Fiction and nonfiction.”

  I almost asked him which one he considered the Bible to be, but I held back. “Your neighbor came by. She brought some muffins.”

  “Diane?”

  “No.”

  “Who?”

  With so much on my mind, I had already forgotten her name. “I don’t remember. She was blond. Pretty.”

  “Susie?”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “How many girlfriends do you have?”

  “None that I know of. They just come over sometimes. Susie’s a divorcée. I help her with stuff around the house sometimes and we play tennis every now and then. Tell her thank you if you see her again.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “How far did you get?”

  I grinned. “With Susie?”

  He didn’t smile. “On your walk.”

  “Florida.”

  “Did you walk through the Okefenokee Swamp?”

  “Not through it. Around it.”

  “On Highway One?”

  “Yes. You’ve been there?”

  “No. Almost.”

  More silence. He reached up and adjusted the oxygen tube that ran to his nose.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked.

  “No.” He put his hand back down. “They’ve got me strung up like a marionette. Has the doctor talked to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He said you’re going to be okay.”

  “You don’t need to lie. I know what happened. Damage to the LAD. They call it the widow maker.”

  “He didn’t say you were going to die.”

  “They never tell you you’re going to die.”

  “They tell people they’re going to die all the time,” I said. “If they’re going to die.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I’m not lying,” I said. “I’m just more positive than you are.”

  “I’m positive,” he said. “That I’m probably going to die
.”

  “That’s not helpful,” I said.

  “I’m not trying to be helpful. I’m being honest.”

  “Being negative is no more honest than being positive. You should be more positive. Attitude is everything. You always used to tell me that. How would you have felt if I had talked that way when I was in the hospital?”

  “Which time? You spend so much time in hospitals these days I’m thinking of buying you your own gown and having it monogrammed.”

  I shook my head. “You’re cranky.”

  He was quiet a moment, then said, “You’re right, I wouldn’t have liked it. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “At the house.”

  “Smart. Did you turn the lights out?”

  “Of course.” I took a deep breath. “I noticed that you’re working on your family history.”

  “You went into my room?”

  “I’m sorry. I just . . .” I stopped. I wasn’t sure why I had gone into his room. “What brought this on? The family history . . .”

  “I don’t know,” he said. His voice softened. “There’s just something about getting older. You feel yourself drawn back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Back to your roots. When you get older something makes you want to know where you came from. Who knows? Maybe it’s a way to compensate for not knowing where you’re going.” He rubbed his chin. “These days they have all these online genealogy sites. I’ve met some relatives I didn’t even know I had. It’s been nice catching up.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?”

  “You weren’t around.”

  “I was here for two months. You never once mentioned that you were working on your history.”