Kentucky Sunrise (16 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Kentucky Sunrise
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Ian risked a glance at the clock on his desk. He could call it quits for the day or press on. The professional side of him said to stop the session and suggest a stroll around the grounds.
“Let's call it a day. If you like, I can push your chair over to the snack bar, where we can get one of those icy things that dribble down your chin. My treat. What do you say, Emmie?”
“No, thanks, Doctor Hunter. I have a book I want to read. This next hour is free time for me. I can get back to my cottage on my own.”
“Okay. I'm still going to get that
slurpy
thing. Maybe I'll get blueberry today,” he said lightly. “I'll see you at ten sharp tomorrow morning. Remember, now, you have pending questions you have to answer. Not necessarily tomorrow, but soon.”
Emmie spun her chair around and was out the door a second later. She didn't bother to respond. The moment she was inside her assigned cottage, she got out of the chair and walked around to exercise her legs. The chair was for outdoor travel and the rougher terrain of the grounds. Inside, she was to walk around as much as she could.
There was no book to read. Why had she lied to Dr. Hunter? The next day was Visitor's Day. That meant she had the whole day to herself since she wasn't accepting visitors. What would she do with herself? Sleep? Not likely. No visitors probably meant she would have all her scheduled therapies regardless. Somebody would be checking on her hourly. Maybe she could call someone. She had thirty minutes of accumulated telephone time she could use up. Nick? Her ex-husband? Her daughter?
Emmie sat down on the small love seat and propped her legs up on the ottoman. She realized she felt better than she had in months. Just last week Dr. Hunter had told her she was her own worst enemy. He'd gone on to say,
If the object of your being here is to get well so you can go home, why are you fighting all of us every step of the way? Is it for attention? Is it payback time to your family? Or is it that you hate who you are and what you've become?
“All of the above,” she whimpered.
Emmie closed her eyes and let her mind roam. Where was Nick, her half brother?
What's he doing right now, this minute?
Nick had always been kind to her, but she knew in her heart that he was her mother's favorite child. Her mother had been harder on Nick than she was on her, and yet Nick had survived, thumbed his nose at their mother's demands, and gone on to do what he wanted to do. She, on the other hand, didn't have the guts to do any of the things Nick did. She couldn't even stand up for herself. Maybe it was time to use those thirty minutes of telephone time to call her father. Her
real
father. Maybe that's what was missing in her life, a father. If she did call her father, and her mother found out, she'd probably disown her, and call her a traitor in the bargain. Did she dare risk it?
How many times in the past she'd fantasized about her father. She'd even dreamed about him. In her dreams he was always kind and loving. In those dreams, he'd bring her presents and put his arm around her shoulders and call her his little princess.
Sooner or later the shrink would get around to asking her about her childhood, her parents, and what it was like growing up. Maybe if she called her father, she could find the answers so they would be on the tip of her tongue, to be rattled off at the appropriate time. Or would she be calling her father only to piss off her mother? More than likely the latter.
“I hate this place. I hate it, hate it, hate it.” Dr. Hunter's words echoed in her mind:
Then do something about it. Stop fighting everyone and give a hundred percent. It's all about mind-set, positive thinking, and looking forward to the future.
“Okay!” The phone was in her lap a moment later. She dialed long-distance information, copied down the number, and placed a person-to-person call to Dillon Roland. No one was more surprised than Emmie when her father answered the phone.
Emmie jumped right into the conversation before she could change her mind. “I'm not sure what I should call you. This is Emmie Coleman. You're my father. If this is a bad time, I can call you later.”
“Emmie! I don't know if you'll believe this or not, but I've thought about you a lot over the years. It's nice finally to talk to you. Is something wrong?”
Emmie sighed. “I guess there's a lot that's wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have called you. I guess I wasn't thinking. You know what, let's just leave it at that and I'll hang up.”
“No. Wait. Please don't hang up. You must have called me for a reason. Tell me what it is, but first tell me, does your mother know you're calling me?”
“No, my mother doesn't know I'm calling you. This is probably a mistake. I seem to be real good at making mistakes. I don't want to intrude on your life.”
“The truth is, Emmie, I'm alone right now, and I could do with some intrusion. My wife passed away a while back and my children are scattered all over the country. Everything isn't all black or all white. I do have a side where you're concerned. Perhaps one day we can sit down and talk about it.”
“How about tomorrow? It's Visitor's Day.”
“Exactly what does Visitor's Day mean, Emmie? Where are you?”
She told him.
“I'm so very sorry. I watched my own father battle the same condition. I have a touch of it myself, but not like you've described. I'm also on medication. It's bearable. I'll tell you what. If I can get a flight out this evening, I'll be there first thing in the morning. I can find my way. You're sure now you want me to come there.”
Oh, God, no, I'm not sure.
“Absolutely,” she said.
What's one more giant-size mistake on my record?
“Then I'll do my best to be there. If for some reason I can't make it, I'll call you. I'm glad you called me, Emmie. I really am. You need to know this right up front. I would never have called you because of your mother. She's very powerful, and she makes herself understood quite clearly. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes, I'm okay with that.”
When she hung up the phone, she was shaking so badly she thought she was going to faint. She took huge, deep breaths, trying to calm herself. When the electronic buzzer went off by the front door to remind her of her whirlpool therapy, she almost jumped out of her skin.
All during her session with the swirling water, her mind raced. What would it be like to finally see her father? Would he put his arms around her? Would he talk nice and say how much he wished he could have been a part of her life? Most important of all, would she like him? Was it even remotely possible that they could become father and daughter at this stage in their lives? Did she even want that?
Later, after the session, the therapist handed his written report over to the doctor in charge of Emmie's care. The summary was simple: “Something came over Emmie while she was in the whirlpool. Some kind of transformation, for lack of a better explanation. She stiffened and her eyes started to sparkle like she had a mission to fulfill. I feel this is a good thing. She was smiling and apologized for giving me such a hard time prior to today. I think she made the decision to stop battling us.”
Emmie took extra pains with her makeup and even dabbed perfume behind her ears, delicious-smelling perfume given to her by Nick for her birthday. The dress she chose to wear was yellow linen with matching extra-wide sandals with special grippers over the instep for extra support. Her hair curled naturally over her ears and forehead. She looked like her father. She knew that because she'd seen pictures of him at the Keeneland sales and at the Kentucky Derby.
Precisely at ten minutes till nine, she wheeled her chair toward Dr. Hunter's office, where she canceled her ten o'clock appointment.
“Emmie, you know the rules. If you aren't having visitors, your sessions go on as scheduled.”
“I'm having a visitor. I have to go now or I'll be late. If you don't believe me, check for yourself.”
“But you said you didn't want to see your mother.”
“It's not my mother. It's not important for you to know who my visitor is, Doctor Hunter. I'm having a visitor, that's it. You all encourage this, and I'm complying. I'll see you for our session tomorrow.”
 
 
She saw him first. He looked elegant, almost like a movie star, with his well-cut suit, deep tan, and white Stetson. Her father. She brought the wheelchair to a stop and stood up. “I'm Emmie,” she said, holding out her hand. A hug was too much to expect. “Just don't squeeze my hand.”
“Businesspeople shake hands. Father's hug their daughters,” Dillon Roland said, wrapping his arms about his daughter. “Hmmm, you smell nice.” Emmie swooned. She flushed and felt warm all over.
“Do we have a game plan?” he asked.
“I thought we'd go to my cottage. I have a nice patio outside, and we can sit there or stay indoors. First, though, you have to sign in. Please, use another name if you don't mind. I'll explain later.”
“I understand. How does Dwight Holcum sound?”
“Like a phony name.” Emmie giggled.
“Then, let's do it!” Dillon laughed.
They talked of everything and nothing. They laughed, they smiled, and touched hands from time to time. Emmie felt at peace for the first time in years. She knew if she closed her eyes, she would fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Now that you know everything there is to know about me, how about telling me all about you. Start with when you first met my mother. Please don't leave anything out because you want to spare my feelings. I just need to know. My book of life has always had missing pages.”
He sat back against the cushioned patio chair and gazed at the desert landscaping that surrounded the facility. “I used to sit across from your mother on the school bus. Not every day because I was involved pretty heavily in sports and everything was after school. Your mom had to get right home to do her chores. I never had chores or responsibilities other than to play sports and excel. I managed to get myself pretty banged up over the years and had knee-replacement surgery a few years ago. My father expected me to be the best of the best, and I did my damnedest to become what he wanted. It wasn't easy a lot of the time because there was another side to me, a noncompetitive side. I used to be a secret poet. In fact, I wrote a lot of poems for your mom.”
Emmie's mouth fell open.
Dillon nodded. “Yeah, I know. It probably sounds pretty sappy to someone your age, but the truth is I fell pretty hard for your mom. She was shy and didn't mingle with the other kids. Most of the time she looked frightened and tired. She was prettier than a newborn filly. I wanted to get to know her, so I used to sneak over to the barn. I slipped her a note on the bus one day and the next day she slipped one back to me. We'd meet in the barn late in the evening. She'd sneak down to the barn, and I'd sneak out of the house and ride my bike to meet her. In the beginning we'd just talk and laugh and hold hands. I'd read her my poems, and she'd smile. I didn't have a mother and neither did she, so we had a lot in common. My father was every bit the tyrant her father was. Over a period of months, we became close so it was inevitable that we . . . we made love. It was wonderful. She was my first girlfriend and I was her first boyfriend. I think we were in love or as much in love as two youngsters can be. Then the roof fell in. Nealy told me she was pregnant. I just stood there looking at her when she told me. All I could think of was that my father was going to kill me. I didn't think about her at all. I didn't take the bus home after that. I didn't take it to school either. I lived in mortal fear that she would tell her father, and he would come gunning for me. I saw my whole life going down the drain. Again, I didn't think about Nealy at all or the baby she was carrying.”
Me,
Emmie thought.
She was carrying me, not “the baby.”
It was only when she saw her father's anguished expression that she realized that she was being self-indulgent, thinking only of herself.
Dillon continued his story. “Then the day came when she wasn't on the bus. I knew because I used to lurk in the bushes to get a look at her. That very day, I skipped school and sneaked over to her house and cornered her in the barn. I told her . . . what I told her was I would blow her head off with my father's shotgun if she ever told anyone I was the father of her baby. She just stood there looking at me. She didn't say a word. Not one word. I went home and bawled my head off.

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