Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set

by Richard Paul Evans

  “You’re my friend,” I said. “Maybe my only friend.”

  She hugged me. “How’s your dad today?”

  “I don’t know. He said he’s not feeling any better.”

  Nicole nodded as if she already knew. “It may take time,” she said. “Time heals all wounds.”

  “I’m counting on that.”

  “Have a good night,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The first thing I did when I got home was look in my father’s nightstand for the envelope he’d told me about. It was there near the front, a standard number 10 envelope made of bright yellow paper. The envelope contained more than just a letter. It bulged at one end. I put it back in the nightstand.

  It had been nearly a week since I’d done any walking, so I put on my gym shorts and shirt and went for a long walk, passing the arboretum where McKale and I had gotten married. It felt good to see the old places and relive the memories they brought back. It also felt good to get out on the road again. I find that I can think better when my legs are moving.

  I walked for nearly three hours, returning just as the sun had begun to fall. Then I took my dad’s car to the store and bought some more groceries. I broiled a steak, which I ate with an arugula salad.

  After I finished eating I cleaned up the kitchen, took a shower, then went to my room for the evening, ready to get back to my reading. The next chapter held special interest. It was about me.

  VI

  A Son

  In October of the following year, Kate informed me that she was pregnant. I was as excited as I was terrified. I worried about what kind of father I would be. I didn’t exactly have a sterling role model. I thought I could approach fatherhood the way I had approached survival in the jungle of Vietnam: I’d figure it out as I went. The difference was, I had more training for war.

  Being a mother was natural for Kate. In fact, it was as if she had come into herself. My son, Alan Christoffersen, was born June 5, 1979. He weighed eight pounds and one ounce and was twenty-one inches long. Kate wanted to name him after me, but I didn’t think Bob would be a popular name in the future, so we used my middle name, Alan. He was a beautiful boy. He was healthy with a strong pair of lungs and a head full of hair. In his birth I discovered a paternal side of me that I didn’t know existed. I became fiercely protective.

  Kate was as smitten with her son as any mother has ever been. She called our boy “mister” and “little dreamy.” Alan was a smart kid and inventive, and showed an early interest and talent in art. At the age of three, he was drawing pictures of animals and people. He was also a very handsome boy, and every year his grade school teacher would inform us that the girls in his class all had crushes on him.

  As much as I loved him, there were times I felt awkward about my inability to emotionally connect with my son. Fortunately his mother more than made up for it.

  With the exception of the death of Kate’s mother, the next eight years of our life were idyllic. I continued to climb the ladder at Peat Marwick while Kate raised our son and made our house a home. On June 9, 1987—everything changed.

  • • •

  It was early on a Wednesday morning. I was shaving in the bathroom and Kate was in the shower when she found a lump in her breast. We were both concerned, but she continued her morning ritual of getting Alan off to school. She promised she would call her doctor that day.

  That afternoon she called me at work to tell me that her doctor had taken her right in and scheduled a biopsy. Two days later the biopsy came back as malignant, and her doctor made an appointment for her with a cancer specialist, Dr. Mark Haroldsen, whom we saw just three days later. To our relief, he told us that he believed we had caught the cancer early, but we needed an MRI to confirm his diagnosis, which we got immediately.

  The results came back that same week. The tumor was larger than Dr. Haroldsen thought. Also, the surrounding tissue was all precancerous, so Kate would need a mastectomy. As bad as the news was, there was more. Dr. Haroldsen pointed out a dark shadow under Kate’s arm requiring a second biopsy, this one of Kate’s lymph nodes.

  That evening we sat Alan down and told him that his mother was sick. As usual he was very inquisitive and wanted to know what a tumor was. When we finally used the word cancer he began to cry. He told us that one of his classmates’ fathers had died of cancer that year. Kate just held him and told him not to worry. She said, “Don’t worry, little man. Your mama’s not going anywhere.”

  I had slept in the jungle drenched by monsoon rains and lying in mud two inches thick within a hundred yards of the VC, but I didn’t sleep at all that night.

  My mind was flooded with painful memories. I remembered the talk. It was after dinner, and my mother, father, and I were in the living room. I knew something was very wrong. Children sense these things. I was sitting cross-legged on the red and green couch. The amber curtains with their odd, Nazca-like designs were drawn for the night. The gilded macaroni art I had made at school hung on the wall. I remembered the musky scent of my father’s Old Spice and the pattern of tiny red diamonds on his navy blue tie. Most of all I remembered the look of fear in his eyes.

  I continued reading.

  Two days later the results came back from the second biopsy. The cancer had spread to the lymph nodes. The operation was changed to a mastectomy with a full lymph node removal. Just one week later Kate had the operation. It was another very long week before we got the results. The cancer was even worse than previously thought. Much worse. It had spread to other parts of Kate’s body, including her lungs. Dr. Haroldsen said that, as it was, Kate likely had less than six months to live, but, with heavy chemotherapy, we could buy a few more months. I broke down crying. Kate squeezed my hand tightly, and tears also filled her eyes. But I honestly don’t think they were for her. All she said was “Oh, my little Alan . . .”

  I had to pause a moment, as my eyes had filled with tears.

  Kate became determined to make the most of the time she had left. Over the next twelve weeks we took a trip to Juanita Hot Springs, a dude ranch in Wyoming, with a stop in Yellowstone National Park. She went home to her family in Arizona twice (with Alan; she was always with Alan) and we visited Bryce Canyon in southern Utah.

  Though sometimes it was practically all she could do to get out of bed, she made that Christmas magical. We saw plays and attended concerts. She baked Christmas cookies and even frosted Pop-Tarts with Christmas holly. It was a season of the most incredible love and beauty and denial.

  The new year slapped us back to reality. Kate spent most of her time in bed. On January 12 she decided to stop the chemo. The next day we had the most difficult talk of our lives with Alan. Kate told him that she wasn’t going to get better. Alan cried, but he didn’t break down. A change in him had already begun. I had noticed that he was more serious. He rarely laughed anymore.

  Over the next weeks he missed a lot of school to be with his mother. Kate read dozens of books to him, but mostly they just talked and talked. There were good and bad days, but each new week brought more of the latter as her condition worsened.

  On the night of February 13, Alan made her a Valentine’s Day card and left it at the side of her bed. She never saw it. She never woke up again.

  It was as if I was reliving it all. I set the book down and wept.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  I suppose that to be a parent is to be misunderstood. Perhaps this is the greatest evidence of parental love.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I had a fitful night. I dreamed of my mother’s death over and over. I dreamed of seeing her dead, her still, lifeless body growing cold. I woke sweating and tangled in my sheets. And then I would fall asleep and dream it again—only sometimes it was McKale I saw.

  The next morning my father knew I was in pain as soon as I walked into his room. I suppose it was written across my face.

  “You read about your mother, didn’t you?”

  I sat down, my
fingers knit together between my knees. “Yes, sir.”

  “Those were hard days,” he said softly. He looked at me with sadness. “Hard, horrible days. I’m sorry you had to go through them at such a young age.”

  I looked up at my father and wondered if I was about to go through horrible days again.

  The next week passed in a haze. Though I came to the hospital every day, my father slept most of the time. When he was awake we didn’t talk any more about the family history. I had stopped reading, preferring instead to anesthetize my brain with whatever was on television that night.

  Things weren’t going well. It was becoming more and more clear that my father wasn’t getting better. I had been back in California for thirteen days when my father said gravely, “Al, we need to talk.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “My affairs.”

  I was about to protest when he weakly raised his hand. “I’m not giving up the ghost. But I’m going to die sometime, so we might as well prepare for it. You’ll be grateful later. I’ve handled more inheritance and probate problems than I care to remember. It’s better to take care of things in advance.” I must have still looked distressed, because he added, “It will make me feel a lot better to get this off my chest.”

  I felt like that little boy again sitting cross-legged on the sofa. “All right.”

  “You need to find something to write on.”

  There was a notepad by the phone. I picked it up.

  “No, you need something substantial. I’m sure there’s a shop somewhere in the hospital. Go buy a steno pad and pen.”

  “All right,” I said.

  I took the elevator down to the lobby. The gift shop was right next to the entryway. It had arched French glass windows with cream trim and racks of flowers for sale near the front door. I purchased a yellow notepad and a mechanical pencil. I’m not sure why, but I also bought a bright bouquet of pink, yellow, and orange gerbera daisies. I had never bought flowers for my father before.

  When I got back to the room my father was lying still with his eyes closed.

  “I’m back,” I said. I set the flowers down on the windowsill.

  He opened his eyes, then gestured to the flowers. “What are those for?”

  “They’re flowers. What do you think they’re for?”

  “Save them for my funeral,” he said. “No, scratch that. I don’t want flowers. I want donations made to the American Red Cross.”

  I sat down in the chair next to his bed. “We’re not talking about your funeral.”

  “Of course we are. Write that down,” he said. “No flowers.”

  I took the notepad and flipped it open. “All right, no flowers . . .”

  “Instead of flowers, I want donations made to the American Red Cross or the American Cancer Society. Make sure you provide an address or contact phone number on the obituary, or they won’t do it. They’ll intend to, but they won’t get around to it.”

  I scrawled his directions.

  “Designate a page just for my funeral,” he said. “Write it down on the top.”

  I looked up at him. “Dad, this . . .”

  “This is no time to be squeamish. I just had a major heart attack. My heart could stop at any moment. Let’s get this over with.”

  Knowing that he wouldn’t bend, I wrote Funeral Directions at the top of the first page.

  “I’ve already purchased the plot next to Mom in the Elysium Gardens Cemetery in Denver. I want to be buried next to her. I’ve made arrangements with Beard Mortuary to handle everything. Write that down.”

  “Beard Mortuary? How do you spell it?”

  “Just like the facial hair. 555-0121. It’s a Pasadena number.”

  I wrote down the number.

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just tell them you’re calling regarding Bob Christoffersen. Everything is paid for. I purchased one of those pre-need plans. There will be a memorial service at their little chapel, then the casket will be shipped to Colorado for burial. You won’t need a headstone; I bought one of those couple stones when Mom died. They just need to engrave the final date on my side. Beard will take care of that as well.” He looked up at me. “You got all that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Start another page. Head it Miscellaneous.”

  I wrote it down.

  “After I die, you’ll have to cancel things. Cable, Internet, newspaper, magazine subscriptions. There are at least a dozen things you’ll need to shut down. I keep the automatic monthly charges on the blue Visa card. Once you cancel that, it will put everyone on notice. There’s a list of everything with my final instructions inside the top drawer of my desk—the long, thin drawer, not the one on the side. I put the Visa card in an envelope next to the list.”

  “When did you do all this?” I asked.

  “Two years ago,” he said. “I’m an accountant. I do this for people all the time.”

  I wrote on my pad.

  “My password is TacFuhn72. It’s spelled T-A-C-F-U-H-N.”

  I remembered the name. Tac Fuhn—the mercenary from the war. Seventy-two was the year my father had served. I said, “It’s the name of that Cambodian man in Vietnam.”

  He nodded. “I use that password on everything except my bank accounts. They require that I change the password yearly, so it’s TacFuhn87. Start a new page. Write Financial.”

  “Okay.”

  “My investments are handled by Susan Balogh. Her number is 592-9145.” He repeated the number slowly. “Write this down, it’s very important. I have copies of everything inside the fire safe in my den. It’s in the bottom drawer of my gray file cabinet. It requires a key and a combination. The key is in the top drawer of my desk next to the credit card. You’ll recognize the key. It’s one of those stubby ones with a black plastic bow.”

  “A black what?”

  “Bow. It’s the part of the key left outside the lock.”

  That was the kind of detail only my father would know.

  “The key next to it, the funny-looking one, is for my safe deposit box at Chase. I’ve put you down as an owner, so you’ll have access. The combination to the safe is 4-16-63. The instructions are on a sheet next to the key. I think you turn clockwise until you pass the first number three times, then counterclockwise . . . You don’t need to write this down, it’s on the instructions. You’ve opened a safe before, haven’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s nothing in there that Susan can’t help you with. I have an IRA, a Keogh, three mutual funds, and two insurance policies. You are the sole beneficiary. After I die, you can do what you like with the funds, but I don’t recommend that you cash out in one lump sum. You’ll get slaughtered by taxes, and the temptation to blow it all might be too great.

  “I don’t expect you to remember that; just call Susan. I’ve already talked her through all of this. She’ll help you set up an annuity with a monthly dividend. If you don’t go crazy and loot the principal, there’s enough in there to take care of you for the rest of your life.”

  I was feeling more and more uncomfortable with the conversation. But my father had always been direct. “Why do you have two insurance policies?”

  “It’s complicated. Each one has a different investment vehicle, but since you’ll be awarded the death benefit, it doesn’t matter.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “Write down Home.” Again, I did as he said. “The house is paid for, so you can live there. Or, if you decide to move back to Seattle, you can sell it. Whichever suits you. You know I’m not sentimental. It’s your house; do with it what you will.

  “If you decide to sell, I recommend that you work with—write this down—Michelle Tripp. She goes by Shelly. I’ve known her for almost twenty years. She’s one of my clients and is one of the top real estate agents in Pasadena. She helped me find my office and negotiate the rate. She’ll take good care of you.

  “I know this is a little ov
erwhelming, but most everything I’ve just told you you’ll find typed up inside the top drawer of my desk next to the keys. It’s in a yellow file folder. You can’t miss it. It has your name on it.”

  I wrote this down on my pad. When I looked back up my father was staring at me. “Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you’re not thinking about it hard enough.”

  “I’m sure I’ll have questions later.”

  His gaze faltered, and he rubbed his chin. Then he said, “It’s good that you’re prepared. Who knows if I’ll ever leave this place?”

  I felt anger rise up in my chest. “Why all this talk about death? You’re still young.”

  “Everyone dies.”

  “Not at your age,” I said. We both knew it was foolish to say. My mother had been much younger when she died.

  “You’re right,” he said. He looked down for a moment as if he were thinking, then he said, “You know that dream I told you about? The one about your mother and McKale?”

  “Yes.”

  “You asked what I left out . . .” He paused. “Mom said I wasn’t expected yet . . . but that I’d be with her very soon.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said, “It was only a dream.”

  He looked at me sympathetically and said, “You’re right. It was only a dream.” The room fell into silence again. After a moment he said, “Let me look through your notes.”

  I handed him the notepad. He looked through it, then gave it back to me. “You got everything.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I think I’ll take a nap. You can go if you like.”

  I sat there fighting my growing emotion. Finally I said, “Okay. Have a good rest.”

  “Al.”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you, Son.”

  The words caught me off guard. “I love you too,” I said.

  I drove back to the house, my mind reeling from our conversation. I realized that I had preferred living in denial, something my father, always the pragmatist, did not. It didn’t mean he was going to die, I told myself. He was just being prepared. My excuse rang hollow.