by T. K. Leigh
“Final days?” I swallowed hard, my jaw going slack.
“Since the very beginning, I’ve told you there’s no cure. There’s no magic pill out there that can stop and reverse the progression.” He reached out and grabbed my hand. I shot my eyes to the contact of his skin on mine. It was oddly comforting. “We’re not giving up on him. I don’t want you to think we are. We will continue to do everything we can to keep his brain working.” He gave me a small smile, then leaned back on the couch, releasing my hand. “Environmental stimuli seems to help him have more lucid moments.”
“Like photos?” I raised my brow.
He nodded. “Yes. And reading.” The corners of his lips turned up. “According to the staff, he seems to be happiest in the afternoons. Somewhere inside the confusion in his brain, he knows you’ll be by to read to him.”
My expression fell. “That’s because he thinks I’m my mother.”
“None of that matters. Don’t focus on what you have no control over. Enjoy the time you spend with him. Appreciate the fact that he’s able to listen to your voice, that he’s still here.”
I took a deep breath, allowing the truth I knew was inevitable to sink in. “Have you spoken with Drew about this?”
He nodded. “Earlier this afternoon. He was unable to come and meet with me because of childcare restraints, but he did inform me you were here. But you always are in the afternoon, aren’t you?”
I shrugged sheepishly. “How long does my father—”
“Molly,” he interrupted, knowing exactly what I was getting at. “Even with the best care, he could live for several more years or he could die tomorrow. There’s no way of knowing. But I do know that you and your brother have done everything you possibly can to ensure your dad is as comfortable as he can be for however long he has left.” He hesitated briefly, forming his lips into a tight line. “On that note, the executive director, Dr. Connors, wanted me to discuss the healthcare directive in his file.”
“I’m aware of it,” I replied quickly.
“I just wanted to remind you that his advance directive is, essentially, what you probably know as a DNR. We prefer to use the term AND, which stands for Allow Natural Death. Pursuant to this directive, your brother signed an AND with the facility under the healthcare power of attorney your father had granted him. In the event anything happens, we cannot perform any lifesaving or sustaining measures. His directive covers a variety of different scenarios and what measures, if any, he approves. I’m more than happy to review those with you, if you’d like.”
“I know what his directive says.”
“I’m sure you do.” He met my eyes. “When we reach this stage, it’s simply protocol to remind the family of any directives in place.”
I lowered my gaze, focusing on a small coffee stain on the gray rug as I absorbed everything Dr. McAllister just shared with me. I’d known my father was sick for a while. It had simply become a part of life.
Now that the truth of the situation hung in the air, I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. Most people in my shoes would probably shed a few tears at the notion they could be saying goodbye to their loved one within the coming weeks. Not me. Displaying emotions made you vulnerable. I wasn’t going to put myself in that position.
With a blank expression, I stood from the couch. “I need to get going. Thank you for the update, Dr. McAllister.” I held my hand out. He eyed it, then me.
“Molly, it’s okay if this news upsets you.”
I tugged my jacket closer, flashing him a congenial smile. “I’m fine, Dr. McAllister.”
“Noah,” he corrected.
“Fine. Noah,” I huffed. “Like I said, I’m fine.”
Standing, he narrowed his gaze. “Are you sure?”
I stepped toward the door, holding my head high. “I’m sure you deal with upset families all day long. People asking why this disease had to affect their loved ones. How come their own father can’t remember them.” My voice was even, at complete odds with how a normal person should feel given the situation. I’d become an expert at masking my emotions over the years. This doctor wouldn’t be the one to break me. “I’ve had several years to come to terms with the fact my father is dying. As far as I’m concerned, this disease has already killed him. That man I read to every day is not my father.”
I turned the handle, about to open the door when I slammed into the metal, the door still firmly closed. So much for a dramatic exit.
“Security protocol,” Noah explained, reaching past me for the doorknob. “It automatically locks from the inside and outside.” He pressed a button on the knob, then turned it, pushing the door open.
My face burning, I walked into the hallway, trying to regain at least a modicum of composure.
“Molly,” he called out as I was about to turn the corner that had quickly become a symbol of salvation from utter embarrassment.
“Yes?” I reluctantly spun around, plastering a smile on my face.
“Are you okay?”
I huffed, rubbing a sore spot just above my forehead. “I told you, I—”
“No. Your head.” He took a step toward me, eyeing me. “I can take a look at it for you.”
I quickly stopped fidgeting with my head, showing him there probably wasn’t even so much as a mark. “It’s fine. It’s not the first time this has happened.”
His concerned eyes turned light as he crossed his arms over his chest, widening his stance. “You make a habit out of walking into doors?”
“No. Just wishing I had an invisibility cloak like Harry Potter so I wouldn’t have to be bothered with such trivial things as opening doors.”
A smile formed on his full lips, reaching his dark eyes. The beautiful sound of his laughter echoed against the halls. “Enjoy your evening.”
Taking that as my cue to leave, I hurried down the corridor.
“Oh, and Molly?”
I spun around to face him once more.
“An invisibility cloak didn’t help Harry walk through doors.” He winked and retreated back into his office.
My jaw dropped. Holy shit. He gives good wink.
In a daze, I continued out of the building. When I got behind the wheel of my car, I could have sworn a flutter erupted in my stomach similar to that strange feeling I had written about in my books on more than one occasion. So I did what any normal twenty-nine-plus-one-year-old would. I blamed it on the Mexican food I ate for lunch.
CHAPTER SIX
“IT’S ABOUT TIME YOU got back!” Brooklyn huffed when I opened the door to my apartment to see her and Drew sitting on the couch, waiting.
Drew had taken my advice and finally shaved. His hair was still a bit damp from a shower, and he looked nothing like the scruffy hockey player I knew him to be. He looked rather dashing in his dark jeans and yellow button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up that made his olive-toned skin appear even darker.
“This thing starts in thirty minutes, and we still need to get to the Back Bay!” Brooklyn stood, the heels she wore making her already tall and lanky frame tower over my five-foot, three-inch height by a good six inches. She wore a pair of dark jeans and a loose-fitting emerald green sheath top she dressed up with a silver belt around her waist.
“I’ll be ready.” I headed toward the wet bar and rummaged through its contents to find the strongest liquor I had. If I had to pretend I was interested in finding my soul mate amongst a room full of desperate people, I was going to need a decent buzz. Plus, my father’s prognosis lay heavy on my heart. I needed to dull the pain I did everything in my power to hide. “I could use a drink after today.”
I felt Drew’s eyes on me. I shot him a sideways glance as I set a bottle and a few rocks glasses on the counter.
“Did you talk to Dr. McAllister?”
I nodded slightly. “When I was leaving, Noah…I mean, Dr. McAllister pulled me aside.” I looked at Drew. My expression said everything he needed to know.
“Noah?” Brooklyn placed h
er hands on her hips. “You call your father’s doctor by his first name?”
“That’s what he asked me to call him,” I answered nonchalantly, pouring a few fingers of scotch into each glass.
Before I started writing, I never drank scotch. I felt I needed to try it for research purposes since the leading men in my books tended to drink it. I couldn’t speak intelligently about it if I never touched the stuff myself. There was a lot of bad behavior I repeatedly excused away by calling it research. I did have limits, though. I wasn’t about to do drugs just because I wrote about a meth addict. Thankfully, Breaking Bad really helped in that department.
“Really?” Drew’s eyes floated to mine. “He’s never told me that.”
“That’s probably because you handle shit better than I do.” Leaning against the wall, I crossed one arm over my stomach, the other hand holding my scotch. “That guy is just waiting for me to crack.”
“What do you mean?” Brooklyn edged toward me, scooping her tumbler of scotch off the bar.
“Nothing,” I responded quickly. “It’s just… Whenever he gives me news about Dad, he does so in a way that makes me feel like he’s waiting for me to have a complete meltdown. ‘Are you okay, Molly? Are you sure?’” I said in my best deep voice, imitating Noah’s scruff tone. “It’s like he wants me to lose it in front of him. Like he gets off on that shit or something.”
“He doesn’t get off on that shit.” Brooklyn rolled her eyes. “He’s probably acting that way because you’ve never shown him any emotion at all. He’s a doctor who has to tell people on a daily basis their loved ones are dead or dying. He can probably tell when someone’s pretending they’re okay when, in all reality, they’re not.”
“Then he can probably also tell when someone is okay,” I hissed, avoiding their eyes. I raised my glass to my lips, the scotch seeming to take forever to filter through my mouth and throat, then warm my stomach. Once all the liquor was gone, I slammed the tumbler down, holding onto the quartz counter as I drew a long breath to steady myself.
“Molly.” I felt Brooklyn’s presence behind me before she even placed her hand on my shoulder. I spun around and faced her. She hesitated, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she studied my expression. My face could be blank and emotionless, yet Brooklyn always had a way of knowing precisely how I felt. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Some people would say it is.” I straightened my posture. “This isn’t a surprise to me…to either of us.” I nodded at Drew, whose face seemed to show everything mine refused to — pain, heartache, longing for the way things used to be. “We knew his time was short when he was diagnosed. Since that day, he’s been on borrowed time. Is it bad?” I shrugged. “How can I say it is when we knew this was the path his disease would take?”
I spun on my heels and headed down the hallway, closing the door to my room so I could have a minute to myself away from prying eyes that just itched for me to finally cry in front of them. I didn’t know why everyone thought I should be upset over the predictable decline of my father’s ability to function. Whether or not I exhibited any emotions had no bearing on the freight train headed straight for him. Nothing could stop it.
A blank expression on my face, I sat at the vanity against the far wall, staring into the antique mirror that had belonged to my grandmother. I grabbed a tube of eyeliner off the table and began to apply some, bringing my eyes back to life. I continued through the familiar motions of putting on blush, mascara, and lip gloss, the plain version of myself disappearing as a flirty, sexy young professional out for a good time on a Friday night took her place. I’d done this same song and dance so many times now, I was getting tired of it. I hated feigning interest in someone else’s life, someone else’s hobbies, someone else’s passion. I hated pretending to be someone I wasn’t, even around Brooklyn and Drew.
“Get a move on, Molly!” Brooklyn shouted from the kitchen.
I snapped out of my daze, jumping off the stool. Perusing the clothes in my small closet, I scrunched my nose, unsure of the proper attire for speed dating. I wondered if this was something Google could tell me. Or Siri. That bitch seemed to have all the answers. She had no problem reminding me of that fact in her smug little voice, either.
Short on time, I grabbed the staple of every woman’s wardrobe…a little black dress. Zipping up the fitted dress that hit mid-thigh, I surveyed my reflection in the mirror, turning around and kicking out my leg to check the slit that exposed a little more skin, but in a tasteful manner. Pairing it with animal print heels that added three inches to my short stature, I finished the look with a long, silver beaded, layered necklace and matching earrings. I glimpsed at my reflection in the mirror and plastered a fake smile on my face, pretending to laugh at my make-believe speed date’s dry sense of humor. I knew what men liked. I knew how to act, what to say, what to wear to hook whatever guy was my unknowing victim that evening.
The fake smile still plastered on my face, I sauntered back down the hallway.
“You look great, Molly,” Brooklyn exclaimed when I reentered my living area.
“Not like it matters. This whole thing is a joke.”
“Molly,” she cautioned. “At least give it a chance. You never know who you’ll meet.”
I grabbed my coat out of the entryway closet and headed toward the door, my brother and Brooklyn following. “I could be wrong, but I highly doubt I’ll meet anyone at speed dating who will make my stomach flutter.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, instantly reminded of my afternoon discussion with Dr. Noah McAllister, M.D., and the tingling in my stomach when he winked at me, coupled with a Harry Potter reference. That had to be it. The sensation of little wings flitting madly in my stomach as I jumped into my car earlier had absolutely nothing to do with his sweet smile, his sinful eyes, or his husky voice. I’d always been a sucker for a man who could talk Harry Potter to me. I may or may not have had some rather inappropriate fantasies regarding Neville Longbottom… Year seven Neville, not year one.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Drew added, nudging me.
I snapped out of my thoughts and continued down the stairs of my building, exiting onto the street. He was probably just as skeptical about the whole thing as I was. Not to mention people actually knew who he was. He’d already had his heart broken by a hockey groupie. I hated the thought that he’d never meet anyone who wanted to be with him for him, hated that all anyone would see when they looked at him was the hockey celebrity.
“At least this might be some good material for your column.”
“You’re right about that. I wonder how many guys would be desperate enough to date an escaped mental patient.” I gave them a crazed look. Drew laughed. Brooklyn shot daggers at me.
“Play nice, Molly. There are still some people out there who believe in the idea of love. Maybe three minutes is all you need to know if they’re the one.”
I rolled my eyes as we trudged down the narrow streets of the North End, the smell of garlic, tomatoes, and spices filling the air. Tourists roamed the sidewalks, debating which restaurant to try for dinner. They couldn’t go wrong. No matter which spot they chose, they’d be treated to an authentic Italian meal unlike anything they’d ever had. It was a miracle I didn’t weigh three hundred pounds living in an area surrounded by all this amazing food.
“You’ve been reading too many of my books lately, Brooklyn.” I pulled my jacket closer, a subtle wind blowing between my legs, chilling me in the cool April evening. A dress probably wasn’t the best idea, but I had shaved my legs earlier this morning. I couldn’t waste the opportunity. “No one looks into someone’s eyes and knows, at that moment, they want to spend the rest of their life with them.”
“It could be real,” she offered in a quiet voice. “My dad always told me he fell in love with my mother before she even said a single word. Between classes, she worked at the library on campus. He would go there every day just to see her. It took him months to finally work up the courage to ta
lk to her. When he finally did, well… The rest is history.” She looked down. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe love at first sight doesn’t exist.” Her eyes met mine before briefly floating over toward Drew. “But maybe people believe it does because it gives them hope they won’t be alone forever.”
“What’s so bad about being alone?” I asked when we reached the Haymarket T station. “Why does society put so much emphasis on getting married and having a family? It’s not for everyone. Some people value their independence and don’t want to give that up.”
“You don’t have to give up your independence to be in a relationship,” she argued, parroting what Drew had told me earlier in the day.
“Relationships change people, and usually not for the better.” There was no way anyone would convince me otherwise. I’d been in my fair share of semi-relationships. There was still a little give and take involved, even in the casual arrangements I had. “I’m not willing to give up who I am just to make someone else happy.” We scanned our passes at the turnstiles and headed down the stairs, the sound of metal on metal screeching in the distance. I turned to face Drew and Brooklyn as we waited for the train.
“Listen, I know you two always bring this up because you care about me and want me to be happy. I am happy. One day, I may find someone who’s just as crazy as I am. Maybe we’ll fall madly in love and have lots of crazy sex and babies. But today’s not that day. The only reason I even agreed to this is because I have a deadline and am in desperate need of a muse. A professional young man who looks great in a suit.”
“Can’t you just find a picture of some hot guy online?” Drew asked. “You have a pretty active imagination. I’m sure you could get creative.”
“I tried to write a book without a living, breathing muse once…and ended up having to do a complete rewrite.”