Falling Out of Bed by Mary Schramski

Author:Mary Schramski
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2006-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

“Dad,” I say, wait for him to look at me. He opens his eyes slowly and I can tell he was asleep.

“Do you want to eat? Dinner’s ready.”

“No, thanks, honey. I had enough at lunch.”

“You only had a sandwich. Maybe later?”

“Yeah, maybe later.”

I walk back to the kitchen, fill David’s and my plates. I have cooked a pork roast, rice and tossed a salad. This afternoon, after the doctor left, and Dad and I talked about driving to Fort Worth, he did eat a whole turkey sandwich.

I sit across from David at the dining table. All day I’ve been thinking about what Dr. London said, brushing it from my mind like fallen leaves on the grass.

“Dinner looks great,” David says.

I push rice around my plate with my fork. “David?”

He looks at me, still chewing. “Yeah?”

“Dad’s hospice doctor came out today.”

“A house call?” He wrinkles his forehead. “How much do you think that’s gonna cost?”

“I don’t know.” I clasp my hands. “Elizabeth explained the other day that hospice files all the insurance.”

“That’s good, less paperwork for you.”

“He examined Dad, said he wanted to see him every week. I thought next week I’d drive Dad to his office.”

The familiar look of worry appears on David’s face.

“You have to drive Stan down to Fort Worth every week?”

“Maybe not every week, just until he feels better. It’ll be good for Dad to get out, you know? And I don’t mind going with him.”

“I feel bad you have to do all this.”

“I need to get out of the house, too. You want to know what else Dr. London told me?” I need to explain to someone that the doctor is wrong, that the medical profession is crazy.

“Of course.” David puts down his fork.

“He said Dad probably only has three months.”

He blinks as if he’s trying to understand what I’ve just said. Then, suddenly, as the meaning of my words sink in, his expression crumbles a little.

“He said that?”

“Yes. But I think he’s wrong. Doctors don’t know everything. I mean, they even call what they do a practice.” I study my clasped hands, swallow over the lump that has suddenly developed in my throat.

“Hell, people get misdiagnosed all the time,” he says, picks up his fork, but doesn’t eat anything.

I nod, stand, look at my full plate. “I’m going to go back and help Dad get ready for bed.”

“I’m worried about you. You’re doing too much.” David glances back to Dad’s room. “You spend a lot of time in there when I’m home. I know you must spend more during the day.”

“Dad needs the help right now. He’s going to beat this, and then he can go home, be fine.”

“Yeah.” David gets up, pats my shoulder, stands beside me as if he’s waiting for me to say something else. When I don’t, he walks over and clicks on the TV. A news report about home invasion blares through the room and we listen. The reporter explains that someone broke into a house only six blocks away.

“I think I’ll put the house alarm on tonight before we go to bed,” David says.

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