Maybe she’s still mad at me?
After we get to our rooms – two bedrooms joined by one parlor – and Maurice leaves with the maid, I decide to ask Jenna myself.
“Are you still mad at me?”
“No,” she answers as she looks out the window of the parlor.
And yet she won’t even look at me.
I stand beside her and draw a breath. “If this is still about moving in and – ”
“Can we not talk about that?” Jenna holds up a hand. “I don’t want to think about any of that while we’re here.”
Of course not. Wasn’t one of the reasons we came to London to escape all that?
“Sure,” I tell her. “I was just wondering if you still have something against me, considering you seem to be nice to everyone but me.”
“Are you saying I’m being mean to you?”
“A little.”
She sighs. “Sorry. It’s not you, though. Not everything is about you, Dax.”
“I didn’t mean – ”
“I’m tired, Dax,” Jenna cuts me off and touches her forehead. “Please, let’s not fight.”
So I’m the one picking a fight?
I open my mouth to come up with another argument but purse my lips as I realize Jenna’s right. We shouldn’t be fighting. We should be having fun here in London.
“Okay.” I stand behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. I rest my chin on her shoulder. “We won’t fight. You know what we’ll do? We’ll go visit the museums. We’ll go skating in the park. We’ll hit a pub.”
Jenna breaks free of my embrace. “We have to see your father. That’s what we came here for, remember?”
Really? Is that all she cares about?
“Why do you care so much about my father?”
“I don’t!” Jenna raises her voice. “I hate him just like you do!”
My eyebrows arch. She does?
Jenna sighs. “But he is what he is. He’s your father. Whether you like it or not, that means something.”
I nod. I don’t really know what Jenna expects from my father. Approval? Acknowledgement? She doesn’t need any of that, of course, but she is right. As despicable as the man is, he is my old man.
I offer Jenna my hand. “Let’s go see my father.”
~
Maurice said the surgery was a success, that my father had made a full recovery, so I guess I thought he’d be sitting up in his bed watching football and drinking whiskey. I thought he wouldn’t have any wires or tubes attached to him anymore and that he’d have some color to his cheeks.
I was wrong.
The Walt Willard I see on the bed isn’t the one I know. I can barely recognize him. He’s pale and thin. Even his pot belly seems to have dwindled. He still has a needle in his arm and bandages around his head and around his leg. There’s a tube from under the blanket that goes to a bag that contains yellowish liquid, too. And he’s wearing blue plaid pajamas. I’ve never seen him in pajamas before. He always had his black robe around the house, black like the ravens at the Tower of London, which I used to say was the same color as his heart.
He still looks sick and frail. And old. He seems to have aged at least two decades since I last saw him.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I approach the bed. Surely, this frail, old man can’t be my father.
“Walt?”
He opens his eyes and they meet mine. They look more grey instead of black. For a moment, they just stare at me and I wonder if the stroke did something to his brain that made him forget who I was. Then his eyebrows furrow.
“Dax?”
I let out a breath and nod. “The one and only.”
“And what is my wayward, ungrateful son doing here?”
Yup. That’s me.
I grin. “I see the surgery on your brain hasn’t affected your memory.”
He snorts. “What? Did you come here expecting an invalid?”
I frown. “I came here because Maurice told me what happened to you and I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“You mean you wanted to see if I was still alive and kicking,” Walt says. “But I bet you wish I croaked.”
I admit I’m starting to wish he did.
“Well, you sure look like death gave you a whipping, though. Looks like it got you good.”
“Dax,” Chloe scolds me.
I ignore her.
“Still think the girls will love you?” I touch my chin. “Oh, but right. They never did.”
“Dax!” Chloe berates me louder as she comes to my father’s side.
Walt glares at me. I swear I can almost see steam coming from those bandages.
“Well, I didn’t die, so you better get the hell out!” he shouts at me. “You’re lucky I’m in this bed or I’d rip your bloody guts out from your stinkin’ arse!”
Now, that’s the charming Walt Willard I know. Good. This way, I can keep hating him.