One More Chance

“What?”

“Yep. I’m glad you got rid of that lawyer of yours. Had you not, I would’ve advised you to make the call immediately. That’s about as sleazy as someone can get in the business world,” I said.

“Are you available for hire right now, Mr. Browning?”

“For you? Yes, sir.”

“I want this fixed, reworded, and settled in court—ethically. You bill me for your hours, and maybe after this thunderstorm is behind us, we can talk about a more permanent position for you at my company.”

“With all due respect, I don’t do in-house counsel. I have retainership contracts, but I don’t seclude myself to one person because of situations just like this one.”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on hiring you for in-house counsel.”

“Then I look forward to discussing our future together once we can get you past this hump. It doesn’t seem like it now, but things will be all right, Mr. Richard.”

“I appreciate you seeing me, Tyler.”

“Drop by anytime. My door’s always open.”

I shook the man’s hand before seeing him out of my office. Another client, another prospect for retainership. I looked at the file folder of papers on my desk and sighed. That case would take the bulk of my time on a good day. I was officially looking at my weekend work. The only thing that made it better was that Richard wanted to improve things, not force people underneath a table to suck his own dick while he screwed them over.

Still, it would be a hell of a case in court.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out. My dad was calling me. I thought about ignoring it. I hadn’t talked to him since the party he threw me. Part of me wasn’t sure if I was ready to speak with him yet, but something in my gut told me to pick up the phone.

And that made me nervous.

“Hey, Dad.”

“You need to get to Ronald Reagan now.”

My blood ran cold. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your mother’s in the hospital, Son, and it doesn’t look good.”

I grabbed the folder and stuffed it into my briefcase before I tucked it underneath my arm.

“How long have you guys been there?”

“A few hours. Your mother collapsed on the floor with yellow eyes this morning and I had to call an ambulance.”

“Do they know what’s wrong? What room are you guys in?”

“They’re admitting us now, so I don’t know the room. I’ll text it to you once we get there.”

“I’m locking up my office now. See you in thirty.”

I raced down to my car and chucked my briefcase into the back seat. I raced across town to the hospital and skidded my car into a parking spot. I grabbed my briefcase and raced inside, digging my cell phone out of my pocket to check if I had any messages.

402.

My parents were in room 402.

I ran straight to the elevator even though people were yelling at me to slow down. I shoved my hand repeatedly against the up button until the door finally opened. I stepped in and slammed the button for level four, then shuffled on my feet until the elevator stopped.

As the doors parted, doctors were rushing a gurney past, and I stepped out.

“Mom?” I asked.

Her hand flop over the side of the gurney as they turned the corner.

“Mom!”

“Son.”

“Mom!”

“Come here, Tyler.”

“Mom!”

My father whipped me around and wrapped me up in his arms. I buried myself into him like I used to do when I was a child. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I shook in his grasp, and he gripped my suit tightly to try to pull me closer into him.

“What’s happening to her?” I asked breathlessly.

“They’re running some tests, but they’re almost positive it’s cirrhosis.”

Just hearing that word made me pull away from my father.

“How could you let this happen to her?” I asked.

“Tyler, now isn’t the time—”

“You enabled this behavior for years.”

“Son, we can’t—”

“Why did you let Mom die!?”

“Because I had no control over the situation!”

His voice boomed across the waiting room so loudly that a nurse came in to quiet us down. He took my arm and yanked me down the hallway, pulling me into the room that had been designated for them.

For us.

For my mother.

“We can argue about this later. I know you blame me for the condition your mother’s in, but there’s so much about this you don’t understand, and I don’t have the time to explain it. Just—they’re running some tests, but the whites of her eyes are very yellow. So are the beds of her nails, which signals a failing liver at best.”

“What do you mean you had no control over the situation?”

“Tyler, listen to me.”

“No, Dad. For once, you listen to me. For years, Mom’s been like this. And for years, you allowed alcohol in your home. I’ve never known Mom not drunk, not intoxicated in some form. Why didn’t you put your foot down? Why didn’t you enroll her in rehab? Why didn’t you do more to stop this?”