“I’ll spill all the details later. Take Mom home. Knowing her, she hasn’t slept a wink the entire time, and she’ll want to stay. It’s my watch for now.”
“Yes, boss,” Alice says, leaving the room. After pushing the door shut, I walk over to the bed, rearranging the pillows so he can sit or sleep comfortably.
“You don’t need to baby me, Pippa,” Dad says in a gentle tone. “I’m all right. I’m—”
“Dad,” I say in a low voice—almost a whisper—while keeping my eyes on the pillow. “I know you’re strong, but you scared all of us last night.” Also, right now, with the gray hospital gown covering his pale, sweaty skin, he looks anything but strong. He looks weak and fragile, two words I have never associated with my father before. But I don’t tell him that. Instead, I decide he needs some tough love to realize how serious this is. When I speak next, my voice is strong and severe.
“Mom was in shock. You have any idea what it was like to see her in that state while you were having surgery?”
Dad jerks his head back, his lower lip trembling slightly. “No.”
“It was horrible and scary. I don’t think she’d ever recover if she lost you. Follow the doctor’s instructions. Please, Daddy.”
I keep my fingers crossed behind my back because Dad is not one to listen. However, he nods at me.
“All right, I will.”
Feeling bold, I decide to try my luck. “Also, I don’t want you to go back to the ranch to oversee the reparations.”
“Pippa—”
“No, Daddy, it has to be that way. You’ll put yourself in danger again, and I… What?”
“You haven’t called me Daddy since you were nine years old.” His eyes are wide and glassy, as if he’s holding back tears.
“I… Why did I stop?”
He smiles at me. “I believe your words were, ‘It’s not cool.’”
“Well, I was an idiot. Promise me you’ll stay put.”
“I promise you, sweetheart,” Dad says, and pulls me in for a hug that makes me feel nine years old all over again. Every muscle in my body relaxes as I wrap my arms tightly around him.
“Great, now you’re in for a few hours of babying, whether you want it or not.”
***
Eric
I’m in and out of meetings the entire day, skipping lunch and only taking a break around four o’clock when I receive a call from my mother.
“Hello, Mother,” I say into the phone as I shut the door to my office. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you for the gift and the flowers, Eric.”
“It’s not every year you turn seventy.”
“Shh, don’t say that out loud,” she admonishes me, and I can’t help smiling. My mother stopped owning up to her age about twenty years ago. She’s tried to pass off as being in her late fifties for the better part of the last decade. To her credit, she does look incredible for her age.
“So, how old are you unofficially? Is it still fifty-nine?” I notice a burger on my desk and immediately attack it. I make a mental note to thank my assistant—it’s part of my plan to be nicer to people. In my experience, being strict always works, but maybe Pippa’s on to something.
“At my age, numbers are a taboo subject. If anyone in my bridge club brings it up, I stop inviting them to come over.”
“Sounds very reasonable,” I tease her.
“The bracelet you sent me is absolutely beautiful,” she continues.
Ever year on her birthday, I send her roses and jewelry. This year, I sent her one of Pippa’s creations. Unable to sit anymore, I grab the burger in my free hand and pace around my office, stretching my legs.