going to understand a volunteer firefighter going out on call?” It was more of an accusation than a question. Chief George Bradens brooked no disrespect whatsoever where the Gordon Falls Volunteer Fire Department was concerned. Besides, Clark had made plans to have dinner with his dad even before the call. Before Melba.
“I met Melba Wingate over at the hospital. Mort’s daughter. She looked in a bad way, so I told her I’d run and get her something from Dellio’s and bring it back to her so she wouldn’t have to leave her dad.”
Some kind of weird shadow passed over Pop’s face. “She’ll get over it. She just hasn’t lived here long enough to remember what it is we all do around here.”
“Maybe, but I feel bad.”
“Well, you ought to.”
“Even if I stop by Dellio’s first, there would still be a half an hour of visiting hours by the time I could get to the hospital. I’ll try a last-ditch effort in case she’s still there. You’ll still be here when I get back, right?” he called as he ducked out the door. After two seconds he circled back to add “Mort’s doing fine,” but not before he realized Pop hadn’t asked after Mort.
Which was odd because Pop asked after everyone. Pop was like Gordon Falls’s universal grandfather, poking his nose into everyone’s welfare. He’d always thought there was something odd about the chill between those two, but then again he’d just stood Pop up for dinner. Again. So much for trying to prove to his father that he’d put his old, irresponsible ways behind him. Why was it he had such a gift for disappointing people? He put it from his mind as he thumbed through his cell phone to the listing for Dellio’s “call ahead and pick up” line.
Chapter Two
Clark knocked on the hospital room door even though it was partway open. “Better late than never, I hope.”
The pile of snack wrappers on the side table by Melba made him wince. She looked worse than earlier, looking over her shoulder at him with weary eyes. Her father seemed to be dozing, his head turned toward the window and a blanket tucked up over his thin shoulders. He didn’t know Mort all that well, but it didn’t take a lot of familiarity to see the man was in bad shape. His thin, wiry body slumped without energy against the hospital bed.
“That was a long fifteen minutes.” Her words were lifeless, as if she were too tired to be angry.
Clark palmed the pager at his side. “Got a call. Normally I take cell numbers because this kind of thing happens all the time, but I didn’t have yours. Sorry I kept you waiting.”
She pushed a strand of hair out of her face. She wore exotic, artsy jewelry on several fingers—the handmade kind with lots of colored stones—and a bulky gold band on one thumb. “It’s okay.” He looked past the dark brown curls to see red-rimmed eyes. She’d been crying.
“No, it’s not.” He kept his voice soft as he walked farther into the room. “Hey, look, are you going to be okay? No offense, but you look like you need a lot more help than just a decent meal.”
She took a deep breath and swept up the pile of wrappers into the trash can. “It’s been...a bit rough today, that’s all. Harder than I thought.”
Even though his training as a first responder injected him into people’s moments of pain all the time, he felt this intrusion keenly. “What isn’t?” He placed the bag on the table, uncomfortable but still unwilling to leave. “Is he in pain?”
“Just really confused. He wakes up not remembering where he is or why he’s here.”
“Sounds understandable.” Her watched her pull herself wearily out of the chair. “You think he’ll be better once he gets back home?”
It was the wrong question. “I’m sure he will.” Disbelief pushed a false brightness into her words even as fear leapt up in her eyes. “Thanks, I’m starved.”
“I’m glad I made it under the wire. Another ten minutes and they wouldn’t have let me in. I’d have been forced to eat that giant fungus for you.”
She managed a small smile that broadened when she opened the bag of French fries and the savory aroma filled the room. The half-eaten contents of the bag sitting on the seat of Clark’s car held testament to the truth that nothing in the world grew an appetite faster than the scent of Dellio’s fries.
The aroma even roused Mort, who groaned and rolled his head on the pillow to face them. His ashen face startled Clark. It seemed impossible that the man in that bed was nearly the same age as his own robust father—they looked decades apart.
Mort’s brows furrowed in confusion, staring at Clark as if he were a misplaced object. Melba walked over to touch her father’s arm, her whole body reacting to his wakefulness. Something dark and hard flashed in Mort’s eyes, and he began to pull himself up off the bed. “What’s he doing here?” he snapped.
“That’s Clark Bradens, Dad. He brought...”
“How dare he come here?” Mort jabbed an accusatory finger in Clark’s direction. “You swore to me, Maria, you said you’d never...”
“Dad, it’s Melba. Calm down, okay?” With a flash of a look in Clark’s direction, Melba pushed her father back onto the bed and hit the nurse call button.
“Get him out of my home!” Mort yelled, and Clark backed up toward the door.
“I’m sorry, he’s not himself.” Melba struggled to keep Mort from rising.
Clark felt awful for not being able to help, but it seemed clear that moving any closer to Mort would just escalate things. “I’ll just go.” The nurse came in behind him as he ducked out of the room.
“Go away and don’t come back!” Mort’s brittle voice called behind him.
* * *
Her father’s angry words still echoed in Melba’s head as she stared into her tea the next morning. The chill of them made her pull the afghan Mom had knitted for her first apartment tighter around her shoulders. Its blue-and-green design didn’t fit this house’s color scheme, but then again nothing from her Chicago apartment looked at home in this country bungalow. She was at home and out of place at the same time.
The color clash was a mirror of her mood. Events felt confusing since last night, facts wouldn’t fit together in neat patterns, and life itself felt disjointed and tangled.
“I’m...” she searched for the right verb as she stroked Pinocchio, the fat tabby who’d been their pet since Melba was sixteen “...tumbling into a new life today, hm?” Tumbling seemed like the best word. Tumbling was something set in motion not by her, but by things beyond her ability to control. Tumbling didn’t imply control or direction—and she felt like none of those were in her grasp today. Pinocchio merely purred and pushed against her hand, the universal cat gesture for “more, please.”
“Dad’s coming home today. You’ll get plenty of petting soon.” Pinocchio was one of the few things guaranteed to calm Dad down when he got confused. Pinocchio and music. Melba had loaded Dad’s favorite record album—a collection of old hymns played on the piano—onto her digital music player so she could play them for him in the hospital. She had it playing now. It was nice to have the music cue
