Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
It’s Parker’s dad, live and in person, standing near the nurses’ station.
“Shit,” I echo.
Parker grunts. “Why is he even here? I told him I had everything under control.”
He starts down the hall again. I follow, my stomach balling into a stress knot as we approach his always unapproachable father. That familiar Tom Ford cologne hits my nostrils, and suddenly I’m eighteen again, watching this man count out twenties for babysitting into my palm while never once looking at my face.
Occasionally, my boobs, but never my face…
His father is the worst, and the last thing any of us needs right now.
A fact he’s already proving by the time we stop beside him.
“What I’m saying is that this is inadequate and does not meet an acceptable standard of care.” The condescension in his voice makes me wince. “I need more information than you’ve provided in this chart, and I need someone competent to speak with. Now.”
The nurse’s eyes have gone dead, a common side effect of being forced to deal with rich people’s bullshit before coffee. Even the cartoon cats on her scrubs look exhausted.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” Parker asks, cutting in before the poor woman is forced to respond.
His father pivots, and there they are, Parker’s eyes set in a face that’s been preserved with so much Botox and filler, Phillip Parker looks more like a mannequin than a fifty-something-year-old man.
His gaze slides over me as he turns, dismissing me without a second’s hesitation before settling on his son. “Leo.” One word, but it says so much. Specimen identified. Found wanting. Proving to be as irritating as usual. “Finally. We’re transferring your grandmother to Tulane Medical. I’ve made the arrangements, but I have several things I’ll need you to take care of at the house. I can only spare a day. Maybe three, if I can get my board meeting on Tuesday postponed.”
Parker’s shoulder blade spasms against my palm—Morse code for what the actual fuck is going on—but his voice is remarkably steady as he replies, “I don’t think she needs to be transferred, Dad. They said she’s doing better this morning.”
His father snorts. “Better than what? Better than dead? She’s being transferred. End of story. I don’t have time to fly to Mississippi again the next time this happens. She needs to be closer to New Orleans.”
“Well, I have time,” Parker says, still steady, proving he’s a far better person than I am. If this were my dad, I’d already be throwing “what the fucks” around like candy off a Mardi Gras float. “I’ll stay with her until we’re sure she’s on the mend. I know Nana. She’ll want to be here. With her friends and her house and—”
“She’s eighty-two years old,” his dad cuts in. “What she wants is irrelevant.”
Parker scowls. “Why? She’s not senile, Dad.”
“No, just delusional. Living alone in that giant house, she’s too tired to clean, refusing assisted living, wasting what energy she does have on ridiculous crafts.”
Parker’s spine stiffens. “Those crafts are art. She’s an artist, Dad, a really good one. And she raises thousands of dollars for charity every year with—”
“Please.” His father’s laugh is like lemon juice on a paper cut. I have to fight the urge to flinch as it booms through the hall around us, too loud and completely unconcerned with the sick people nearby who need their rest. “Your grandmother knits dicks, Leo. And paints dicks. And makes giant sculptures of middle fingers to stick in her front yard. That’s not art. It’s sad. She gave up on real art and turned herself into a punchline a long time ago.”
“What’s sad is that you don’t give a shit about what your own mother wants at the end of her life,” Parker says, his voice pitching up. “When’s the last time you even visited her? Two Christmases ago? Three?”
“I have a business to run. And it’s not like she remembers it when I do make the time to fly in.”
“Yes, she does!” Parker takes a breath, lowering his volume as he adds, “She does. She’s not senile.” Phillip grunts, but Parker doubles down, “She’s not, Dad. Not even a little bit.”
“I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree.” His father checks his watch, as if the conversation is starting to bore him. “The transfer’s happening this afternoon. If you don’t want to help close up the house, I guess I can hire someone.”
Parker’s expression ripples with barely suppressed rage. “Over my dead body.”
“Pull yourself together, Leo,” Phillip says, his upper lip curling. “I’m the one calling the shots here. I’m her son.”
“And I’m her medical proxy.” Parker’s hands are balled into fists now, even as his tone goes frosty to match his father’s. “We took care of the paperwork two summers’ ago, after you tried to put her in that shitty home in Metairie. So, you can take about ten steps back and take a seat, Dad. I’m not doing jack shit until I talk to Nana and see what she wants.”