Heart of the Country (17 page)

40

I
SLIPPED ON MY SUIT JACKET
and drew my tie up tight against the collar. All conservative colors. I pulled my sleeves down and looked into the mirror. Stared down the man who got me into this mess. He looked tired. Defeated. Even vague, like a skyline in fog.

I turned and went to the kitchen, deciding I better get something into my stomach. It was going to be a long day. The longest day. I hadn’t eaten much lately and my cinched belt was proving it. As I got the toaster going, I found myself longing for hash-brown casserole, Faith’s signature dish from the South. She wasn’t the best cook, and most of the time we ate out because neither of us had time to do much else, but
every once in a while she’d cook something of her mom’s. And it was always spectacular. She said before she died, she’d learn to make chicken-fried steak with white pepper gravy. I joked that if she learned to make it, we might both die early. But happy.

I checked my watch as I slathered some butter onto the toast. Toast. Nothing to toast to now.

I stood and chewed my food at the counter, barely tasting it but instead drifting to my other world, the world that no longer existed. I just couldn’t let it go. It was all I wanted, and nothing that I could have anymore.

I stared at the couch that I’d quietly sat on when Faith marched out the front door with suitcase in tow, struggling with its weight, its awkwardness. I sat watching her, where I would ordinarily take the baggage and carry it myself. Half of me hoped it would be too much to even get to the car by herself, and she’d give up on it and come back. The other half refused to help her walk out on me. So I just sat. Watched her go. Didn’t get up off the couch for another three hours.

Move on
. These words had started drifting through my subconscious last night and had come to the forefront of my mind this morning as I got ready. I wanted to grieve, but something told me I’d grieved enough. I had to pick myself up off the floor.

Except I knew no amount of resolve would fix anything. Undo anything. Create a miracle.

I could stomach only half a piece of toast. I threw the rest in the garbage and knew it was time to go downstairs. I
picked up my briefcase, took one long, deep breath to try to keep my insides from shaking, and went out the door.

Downstairs, the sleek black limo idled on the street. It looked like an expensive pair of Ray-Bans soaking up the morning sunshine.

Ward stepped out. “Good morning, Mr. Carraday.”

“Hi, Ward.” He opened the door for me and I slid into the dark, odorously clean interior of the limo.

Jake and Dad sat across from me, both overdressed as usual. Dad was glancing through some papers, but he looked up as I entered. “Luke. Holding up?”

“Guess so.”

“How are you holding up?” Jake asked with more intention.

“Terrific,” I said, and the edge in my voice explained the ridiculous answer.

“Okay,” Jake said, “I know this is going to be a tough day. I get that. But you have to keep your head high, okay? You have to stay steady.”

I looked at Jake and maybe for the first time in a long time, I understood him. What I’d tried to run from was the very thing that was keeping me steady right now, at this very moment. I had two of the strongest men I knew holding me up. Maybe that’s what they’d been doing since I was born.

Dad nodded, peering just a little over his reading glasses, then went back to whatever it was he was reading. Jake was still talking while his thumbs flew over his BlackBerry. I sat there and watched the two of them, thinking about the
hundreds of contacts I had through my work. The numerous acquaintances that had stayed steady in my life for years. Even the friendships that had been built around late nights at bars and parties and pool tables. I must have known a thousand people, but only two . . .
two
. . . were by my side now.

My stomach turned as I felt the limo pull to the side of the street. Outside, a crowd of photographers and journalists huddled together like they were inside a bunker or something. Shouting. Flashes. A roar of words I couldn’t even understand.

Dad set the folder down beside him, slid the glasses off his nose, and tucked them in his pocket. “Remember, no matter what happens, we stick together. Understand?”

I nodded. Dad had said that hundreds of times to me as a kid. On an African safari. On a fishing expedition in Alaska. In a crowded room at a Christmas benefit.

“Dad . . . ,” I said. I felt like a kid. Small and vulnerable. Unsure. “What’s this going to do to your company?”

Dad had what I liked to call the Clint Eastwood squint. It popped up when he was trying to read a menu and had forgotten his glasses. I’d also seen it when one of his employees was babbling nonsense to him. He was never aware of how intense it made him look. And it was staring me down right now. “It’s time to go” was all he said.

Though I was closest to the door, I couldn’t manage to even open it. Soon Ward stood there. I could see his hand against the door.

Then it opened. The shouts assaulted us like bursts of
sand in the face, blown by dynamic wind. I blinked rapidly, trying to keep my calm, but one shaky leg out of the car and I knew this was going to be difficult. Within seconds, a hand was on my shoulder, and soon I felt a body close to mine. Jake.

I glanced back to make sure Dad followed. He slowly got out of the limo, seemingly unfazed by his age or the audience. He patted his pockets, presumably to make sure he had his glasses and his phone, then smiled mildly at everyone and dismissed questions with a flick of his wrist.

Soon the three of us were walking side by side, pushing against the mob. Ward helped. And so did two police officers. But it was like treading through mud. We were shoved. I lost my balance, but Jake caught me under the arm. “Keep moving,” he whispered.

I kept my eyes focused on the top of the stairs of the federal courthouse. One step at a time.

Out of all the voices shouting at us, one filled the air, like the ocean noise of a seashell right at my ear.

“Austin! Aren’t you worried that defending your son is going to bring down your company?”

My heart sank, even though it was my worry too. I kept walking, but I felt Dad’s hand release my arm.

“What did you say?” Dad’s voice growled like a menacing dog whose hair was standing straight up on its back.

“Keep walking,” Jake said, but I couldn’t.

Dad’s eyes were fierce as he turned to face the reporter, his neck literally stuck out, his finger pointed directly at the
man who asked the question. “This is my
son
!” His arm shot out and he was pointing at me now. All eyes shifted from Dad to me. I felt myself stand a little taller. “
My
son! No stock is worth losing him.” His hand was around my arm again. “Come on, Luke. Let’s go.”

We walked toward the imposing white stone columns of justice above us. And Dad’s hand never left my arm again.

41

I’
D SAT FOR THREE HOURS
watching Dad sleep, studying how often his chest would rise and fall. It was good that he was sleeping peacefully, but it was unnerving too. I was afraid if I took my eyes off him, even for a minute, he might stop breathing. Or go into a seizure. So I watched until I couldn’t watch any longer, and then I called Lee.

“I was planning on stopping by anyway,” he’d said over the phone.

And he did. Just as Dad was waking up, Lee pulled into our long driveway and parked his truck next to my car.

“Lee’s here,” I said, going to the door.

Dad rubbed his eyes. “Why?”

“To check on you.”

“Oh, brother,” Dad groaned. “That’s why I wanted to leave the hospital, so I wouldn’t have to endure any more of that.”

“Don’t act like a brat, Dad,” I said in my stern voice. “It’s just a precaution.”

Dad mumbled something I couldn’t hear as I opened the screen door for Lee. “Hi,” I said warmly. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“How’s he feeling?” he asked from the entryway.

“Grumpy.”

“I’ll take grumpy.” With his doctor’s bag, Lee made his way to the living room.

“Dad, Lee’s here,” I announced.

Dad mumbled something again, his eyes focused on an ESPN show.

“Hey, Calvin. How are you feeling?”

Dad’s gentle eyes had the capacity to turn sharp when he wanted them to, and let’s just say they were as sharp as Olivia’s tongue. “Well, Lee, I’ve got a tumor growing in my brain, so I’m feeling about as good as you’d expect.”

Lee glanced at me for support. I urged him on.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to check your vitals, okay?”

“It’s not my vitals that have a tumor, now is it?”

“Daddy, please. Lee is here to help.”

“Fine,” Dad sighed. “Do what you must. But hurry up about it.”

“I just want to get a good look in your eyes,” Lee said,
pulling out a small light from his bag. He sat down in front of Dad, on the ottoman that Dad usually used for his feet.

“You’re blocking the game,” Dad said. Whined, really.

“I just want to look . . . Can you look here in my light? . . . Right here in my light . . .” Lee put his flashlight down. “Calvin, I can’t get a good look when you watch the TV.”

“Come on, Daddy. Help him out.”

Dad huffed and stared right into the light. As Lee checked him, Dad said, “Doctors don’t usually make house calls, do they?”

“Not usually,” Lee said, studying his eyes.

“And you’re not a cancer specialist. You’re an ER doctor.”

Lee glanced above the light. “Yep.”

“So who exactly are you calling on?” Dad asked.

Lee sort of froze. So did I. Then I rushed to Lee’s aid. “Dad, he’s just coming by to help us out.”

“Hm. You done?” he asked Lee.

“Close enough. You look pretty good, Calvin.”

“Great. Then leave me be.”

Horrified at the way Dad was acting, I escorted Lee to the door. I lightly touched his arm. “I am so sorry. I’m not sure what has gotten into him.”

“It’s okay,” Lee said. He opened the door and walked out. I followed him.

“Is it the tumor making him act like this?”

Lee laughed as he threw his bag through the window of his truck. He turned to face me, leaning against the door. “No. He’s just trying to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what?”

“Me.” Lee studied the ground. So did I. I think we were staring at the same spot.

“That’s . . . that’s silly.”

“No. It’s not.” He looked up at me. Stood upright and took a step closer. My heart was pounding out of my chest. “Dads know these things about their daughters. They have a sense of when they’re vulnerable.”

At the word
vulnerable
, I shivered. I felt myself wanting to be held. Like he was a magnet, I stepped closer to him. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to think about him touching my face, stroking my hair. Then I opened my eyes, which had filled with tears, and found Lee’s.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have
 
—”

“Shh. It’s okay. You didn’t . . . I was the one who . . .” He took a deep breath and pulled something out of his pocket. He handed me a small business card.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the name of the doctor you need to get in to see in New York. Dr. Joseph Sinclair, at Sloan-Kettering. He’s the best in the world at these types of cancers at the base of the brain.”

I stared at the card. Blinked at the address.

Lee continued, “I’ve made some calls to my professors back at Columbia to see if I can get him in, but I haven’t heard back, and truthfully, that route is a long shot.”

“Okay, well, thanks for trying. Hopefully this doctor here can
 
—”

“Faith. Listen to me. He won’t have a shot without Sinclair. It’s stage IV. It’s on his brain stem. Sinclair is your only hope.”

Lee’s words hit my heart hard, a sucker punch straight into my soul. “But . . . how do I . . . ?”

“Your in-laws, Faith. They’re pretty connected in those circles.”

“My
in-laws
?”

“They’re probably your only shot at getting in. You should call Luke.”

“Lee, I haven’t talked with him in . . .” It felt like forever.

“I would take your dad now, to New York, and stay there until they can get him in to see Sinclair.”

“But . . .”

“If you don’t, your dad will likely die. He doesn’t have much time.” Lee opened his car door. “I won’t stop trying to make phone calls either. Hopefully something will work.”

I backed up as he started his truck. “Okay, thanks.”

“Go to New York. Call Luke.”

He drove off. I stood there in the dust of his truck, choking on my new reality.

42

H
ARDY WATCHED ME
walk from room to room, from chair to sofa, from front door to back. He sat at the kitchen table, observing restlessly. Finally he threw down his hat. “Olivia, what? What is this? You’ve been scurrying round here like a scared squirrel, saying ‘She can’t handle it’ over and over again. Who can’t handle what?”

Admittedly, my legs were tired and so was my finger, for the number of times I’d twirled and untwirled my hair. I sat at the table with him. “Faith.”

“Faith can’t handle your dad being sick?”

“Don’t know about that one yet,” I said, thumping my
fingers against the table. “But I was thinking about having Faith take Daddy to the doctor’s appointment this afternoon with that oncologist.”

Hardy looked genuinely confused. “But why?”

“I know, I know,” I said, irritated that he wasn’t following my train of thought, even though I wasn’t really even giving him a track. “But see, Faith doesn’t believe in herself, Hardy. She’s lost her marriage and her dream and her sense of
 
—what do you call it?
 
—self-worth.”

Hardy was nodding. Sort of blankly.

“She’s just this tiny scared mouse. She even nibbles like a mouse. You watch her eat and it’s like she thinks the corn on the cob is going to jump right off that plate and beat her to a bloody pulp.” I sighed as I looked at Hardy’s poor, confused face. “She’s a smart girl. She can handle taking Daddy to the doctor.”

Hardy studied his calloused hands. “But can you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I barked, even though I knew exactly what it was supposed to mean. And it wasn’t even supposed to be an insult, but everybody knew I was easily insulted. Even me. I let myself calm down a little. “I know. That’s why I’ve been pacing this floor like you the day Nell was born.”

“I think you’re right,” Hardy said. “I think she can handle it. And I think it’d be good for you, too. To let go a little.”

Hardy, I knew, was a wise man. He let me talk a lot and rant and rave and do what I do, but when the time came to speak the absolute truth, Hardy was there.

“Maybe I should send a tape recorder with her. We got one around here?”

“Nope. Wouldn’t be a good idea if we did.”

“Right.” I put my elbows on the table, folded my hands, rested my chin there. “Okay, so our cover is going to be the kids have the stomach flu.”

“Fine.”

“Anything less and she won’t believe I can’t go.”

“Sure.”

“And I can’t go. I have to let her do it.”

“Yep.”

“Nell! Vic! Get in here!”

The girls scurried in from their bedroom. I felt both of their heads. “Burning up, the two of you.”

Vic felt her own head. Nell piped in, “You can’t feel your own fever.” She looked at me. “But I don’t feel sick.”

“You look pale. You feel pale?”

Vic felt her skin again. “A little. What’s
pale
?”

“It’s when all the color drains from your face,” Nell said. “Like the time you asked Mom what fornication was in front of the preacher.”

“
Okaaay . . .
let’s forget that for now and get you two some chicken noodle soup. I have to go check on Grandpa.”

“I want to go!” Nell declared, which of course I predicted.

“Not with a fever, honey.”

“I don’t even feel sick.”

“By night’s end, you two will be puking your guts out.”

“Cool,” Vic whispered.

“I got the soup,” Hardy said, raising an eyebrow at me. What? He knew by now my child-rearing tactics were unconventional. But I didn’t want this coming back to bite me. Faith had to believe this was her journey. Destiny. Fate. She was into all that stuff, but it had to be authentic.

My cover would be that I was starting to feel nauseous too, blah blah blah. I wasn’t going to have to fake the paleness. I was sure that at the moment I had to tell her she was on her own, the color really was going to drain from my face.

I grabbed my purse and walked outside. Funny, I did feel nauseous, too. Could I really let the fate of my beloved father rest in the hands of my totally screwed-up sister?

I guess this was what the pastor was referring to all those times he talked about a higher calling. The higher road. Here it was. And it hurt like heck.