Scammed (2 page)

• • •

Ten minutes later he was in his Prius, driving north out of town. At 7:30
PM
, the sky was clear, with a hint of afterglow over the Sooke Hills. An earlier shower had left the Island Highway damp, but the traffic was light and he quickly reached the Helmcken Road turnoff, which led to the Victoria General Hospital.

Directed to a nurses' station on the second floor of the plain, modern building, Greg identified himself and asked to see his dad. The desk nurse, an attractive but harried-looking young woman, eyed his solemn business suit, then reiterated his mother's warning. “He's probably asleep, Mr. Lothian.” Was he mistaken, or was there a hint of relief in her voice? “But I guess you could look in for just a minute.”

She pointed to a room at the end of the corridor. Walking as quietly as his stiff shoes would allow, Greg went down the hall and stopped in the doorway. The solitary bed in the room contained an old man, gaunt and pale, with a high forehead and a cascade of gray hair, lying very still. An IV line snaked down to one sinewy arm. The other lay across his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically.

A moment later, Walter Lothian's eyes snapped open. Evidently he recognized his son right away; the particular nuance of impatience in those dark, angry eyes was all too familiar. “Greg.” The thin lips mouthed, though making no sound.

Greg edged into the room, eyes fixed upon his father. Up close, he could see that pain and irritation were muscling their way through a considerable degree of sedation. Anyone else would probably have been unconscious, but not this old warrior. “Hello, Dad,” Greg said. “Sorry about what happened. How are you feeling?”

Walter Lothian's eyes flicked toward the ceiling, eloquently expressing his opinion of that banality. His free arm indicated a water glass on the bedside table, a gesture both feeble and commanding. Greg lifted the container and held it out. For all his care, a few drops spilled on the white stubble of his father's jaw, causing the reaching lips to take time out for a muttered imprecation. For the millionth time, Greg wondered how someone whose life's work involved the creation of beauty could be such a full-time curmudgeon. But he apologized as usual, better positioning the glass, and Walter drank. That done, he beckoned his son nearer. Hesitantly, Greg leaned in. “What is it, Dad?”

Walter took a slow, noisy breath. When words arrived, they were like a whisper from another room, but icily clear. “Your mother . . .”

“Mum? Yes, Dad, she's very worried about you.”

“Shut up! Listen!”

“What . . . ?”

“It's not me she's worried about. The stupid idiot is scared for herself—about what I'll have to say—when I get out of here.”

Greg could only stare. Despite the sedation, his father's pallid complexion was growing flushed. A heart monitor, unnoticed till now, began a strident bleat. “Dad!” Greg said in consternation, reaching out a hand and not knowing where to put it. “What are you talking about?”

“Foolish woman!” the old man spat, his voice growing in volume and intensity. “Senile, crazy old bitch! She's just lucky I
did
break my hip. Otherwise I might have wrung her neck.”

Greg stepped back in dismay. There was a flurry at the door and a nurse appeared. She took in the yipping monitor and the patient's wrathful expression, then swung on Greg. “What's going on?” she snapped. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing at all!” Greg stammered.

The nurse bustled across to the old man's bed. “I told you to look in on your father, Mr. Lothian,” she said over her shoulder, “not get him all riled up. Don't you know he's got an operation in the morning?”

Speechless with fury, Greg said nothing. Having dismissed him, the nurse was fussing around the patient, muttering a small litany of soothing admonitions.

At this point, all Greg wanted was to be gone. He retreated to the door, but paused and looked back. His father seemed to have calmed somewhat, but his furious gaze was still fixed upon Greg, making him feel confused, irrationally ashamed and about nine years old.

“Damn you, old man,” he muttered, and stalked out of the hospital.

G
reg's first client arrived at ten the next morning, though he had been in the office since eight, working on what seemed liked a never-diminishing pile of returns. The routine of interspersing interviews with preparatory work was a distracting nuisance this late in the month, since 90 per cent of the discussions were unnecessary. It was almost a rule of thumb that the later clients left their meetings, the more they wanted to chat, a fact of life that Greg normally took in stride. But by the afternoon of this particular April 29, when he eventually forced himself to take a break, he was feeling more than ordinarily frazzled.

The underlying reason wasn't hard to understand. Last night's hospital visit had left a sour taste, filling his sleep with a jumble of unsettling dreams. He'd woken feeling irritable and depressed, a state which, despite the hectic nature of his day, remained in the background like a dull toothache. Since there was no question of taking time out for lunch, he'd picked up a sandwich on his way in to work. The phone rang, but he ignored it. There was no room for more appointments, which the girl at the front desk knew perfectly well. Any other business could just go into his voice mail. The ringing stopped, but almost immediately resumed. He began to get annoyed; reception must understand he was too busy for calls. He lifted the phone to tell them so, but got a surprise: there was the sound of sobbing on the line and then his mother's voice said, “Is that you, Greg?”

Guiltily, he realized that despite being angered by the visit to his father, he'd given little thought to what the old man was going through today. His mother's crying might have alerted him that something was amiss, but last night she'd also wept, about something quite silly, so his first reaction was impatience. “Yes, Mum, it's me. Calm down. Are you at the hospital?”

“Y—yes . . .”

“How did it go? How's Dad?”

“Greggie . . .” The childish diminutive, which only she used, came out like a half-strangled squeak, followed by a gulp and then dead air.

“Yes, Mum? What?”

“Greggie—Daddy's dead.”

He heard the words clearly enough, but for a numb instant they had no meaning. When comprehension dawned, his first thought was that this was a prank, payback for his earlier lack of attention. At last, reason took hold, demolishing that sad evasion. “Dead?” he breathed. “I don't understand. I mean—
how
?”

The reply was a renewed sobbing. Another voice came on the line. “Mr. Lothian? Hello. This is Dr. York. I'm very sorry, sir, but I have to tell you that while under anesthetic, your father's heart just stopped. All the proper measures were taken, of course, but he could not be revived. There were no prior indications this might occur, but, sadly, such things do sometimes happen with the elderly. I'm so very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“However, it's your mother I'm concerned about right now. She's naturally very distressed and all alone.” The tone grew flat. “And she seems convinced that you are too busy to come to the hospital.”

Greg felt his face flush. “What? Goodness, no. That's not the case at all.”

“I'm glad. Then would you please come as soon as possible? Your mother needs you.”

“Yes, yes. On my way,” Greg said, but the connection was already broken. He put the phone down and stared at his desk in a stupor. The computer and the stack of files, the focus of his life until moments ago, seemed alien, yet they still possessed power, taunting him about the relentlessly looming deadline.

“Damn you, Dad!” The words slipped out, low and bitter, followed by the thought,
If you had to die, why did it have to be now?
Then, appalled at himself, he hurried out of the office.

The journey to the Victoria General took nearly twice as long as the previous night. In early afternoon, the expressway leading out of town was already clogged, and it was forty minutes before he reached the Helmcken turnoff. Finding a parking space took more time. When he finally entered the hospital, it was nearly an hour after his mother's call.

The waiting area to which Greg was directed at first appeared empty. Then he saw a figure in a far corner, slumped over and seeming pathetically small. Only when he arrived did she look up. At sixty-five, Mary Lothian was still an attractive woman, but now her body looked wasted, her face a sunken mask of grief. Her eyes were dark holes above sodden cheeks, and as soon as they lit on her son, they overflowed again. “Oh, Greggie,” she whispered, “Daddy's gone. And it's all my fault.”

That old refrain: if there were any fault, it lay with the lifelong ill temper that had, by all accounts, got his father into this mess. Crouching beside his mother, Greg put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. She clutched him with almost embarrassing abandon, which also made him feel unexpectedly tender. They remained entwined until his mother said at last, “Oh, dear. We must call Jill.”

Greg's sister lived with her husband in Vancouver. Unlike Greg, she'd inherited a modicum of artistic talent, but had turned this toward practical ends. Starting in the graphics department of an advertising agency, she'd grown into a very successful account executive. Though she'd never got along with their father either, she had a similarly abrupt temperament. And it was with the old Walter Lothian “Don't mess with me” tone that she answered her phone now. “Jill Conroy.”

“Hi, Jill. Me again.”

“Greg! Why on Earth . . . ?” She broke off: evidently, her mind had been a long way away from the drama on Vancouver Island. “Oh—yes—right. How is Dad?”

He told her.

After it was done, he realized that his sister sounded less shocked than he'd anticipated, though he couldn't tell over the phone. He'd gone to the far end of the waiting room, where he could keep an eye on his mother while getting the worst part of the call over with. Now he started to walk back. “We're still at the hospital,” he concluded. “Will you to talk to Mum?”

“No!” Jill said hurriedly. “I've a client here, and I can't handle it now. Tell Mum I'm sorry about Dad and I'll call her at home tonight. You'll be taking her back there, right?”

That gave Greg the opening he needed. “Jill, we have to talk about that. It's the end of April. You know what that means?”

Jill's voice was flat. “What?”

“For Christ's sake!” he said too loudly. His mother looked startled and he gave her a reassuring wave, moving farther away again. “Jill, listen—it's tax time
.
Till midnight tomorrow, I'm absolutely snowed. I'm sorry, but I shouldn't even be out of the office now. You've got to come over and help me here.”

After only the slightest pause, his sister said, “Sorry, Greg. Not today.”

“What! Please, listen . . .”

“No,
you
listen!” Jill said, with a clipped emphasis so biting that Greg winced. “I'm just as busy as you and my job's just as important. I don't care if it
is
‘tax time.' You're the one who's there, so you'll just have to cope. Tell Mum how sorry I am—and that I'll call her tonight. Bye.”

His cell went dead. He shoved it away and returned to his mother. In the interim, someone had brought her tea, which she held as if it were a foreign object.

Greg passed along his sister's message, while his mind churned. With almost physical awareness, he could feel the seconds ticking toward tomorrow's midnight deadline. How many returns did he have to file before then? Too many, that was all he knew. “Mum . . .” he began.

Mary Lothian put down the tea mug with a clatter and rose to her feet. She looked tottery and frail, but her eyes held moist determination. “I want to see him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Daddy. Before we leave, I must see him.”

“But,” Greg began, then gave up. His mother might be a passive soul, but there was a certain look she occasionally got that meant argument was useless. He went on a hunt, eventually finding someone to deal with his mother's wishes. He and Mary were ushered into a small room, tucked discreetly at the end of a side corridor. In it was a lone gurney bearing a sheet-shrouded figure. The accompanying nurse silently drew back the cover to reveal the face of the deceased.

In death, Walter Lothian had a remarkable expression; he actually looked benign, as serene as the paintings for which he was renowned. Greg was astonished, recalling all too vividly the anger that was his last memory of the living face. The contrast now was uncanny; it was like looking at a different person. His mother didn't seem so surprised; perhaps, Greg thought, she'd known some private, gentler Walter. That would explain why she'd put up with so much from him over the years. Or maybe he'd once been like this tranquil fellow on the gurney, and she was the only one who remembered. But no, he decided, the difference was likely just the result of gravity. Even the most restless spirits got smoothed out by a visit from the Grim Reaper: not so much relaxed as—gone.

Mary gave her son another surprise: in contrast to her earlier tears, she was quite calm. She stood for a time, silent and still, gazing dryeyed at her husband's earthly remains. Finally she leaned down and kissed him tenderly. “I'm so sorry, darling,” she murmured. “Please, forgive me.”

Greg sighed inwardly. If his mother was still stubbornly determined to believe herself responsible for his dad's death, he supposed she was only running true to form. But it was certainly best not to dignify the fiction by appearing to pay too much attention. So he said nothing, standing quietly with his hand on her arm and waiting. His only thought was regret: in all the times he could recall being with his dad, this was the only one that remotely resembled peace.