Body Shot (Last Shot)(82)
He watched the city sights slide by as they drove from the airport to the hospital in the spring evening, familiar even after all the years away.
His mom had texted him during the day that they’d done some blood tests and EKG testing and the angioplasty was scheduled for tomorrow, and she’d given him his father’s room number at the hospital. As he walked the corridors and rode the elevator, his intestines twisted into ever tighter knots and his muscles tensed. His steps stiffened and slowed. He paused outside the room, pushed back his shoulders, and stepped into the private room, to find both his parents there, Mother sitting beside the bed, Dad in the bed looking pale and drawn. The hospital room was like a luxury hotel, with framed pictures on the walls, attractive draperies over the windows, and a lamp sitting on an oak bedside table.
“Beck.” Mother rose and moved toward him. Dressed in black pants and a gray silky cardigan over a heavy silk, pale gray blouse, she did in fact look as elegant and poised as ever. He caught the hint of tightness at the corners of her eyes though, and the stiffness of her smile. They embraced politely. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
Mother moved away and Beck’s attention focused on his dad. He advanced closer to the bed. “Hey, Dad.”
“Beck.” His father’s normally strong, deep voice was faint. “How are you?”
One corner of Beck’s mouth lifted. “I’m fine. You’re the one we’re worried about.”
“I’m good.” Dad rolled his eyes. “Just need a little procedure and I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”
“I’m sure you will. Seems like you gave Mother a scare.” Beck glanced at his mother, still standing at the end of the bed. “Have a seat, Mother.” He gestured to the chair she’d been sitting in.
“There’s another chair there. Pull it closer.”
“I’ve been sitting in airports and planes all day. I’m good.”
Well. What to say now? Beck’s gaze roved over the medical equipment in the room, including a monitor with a bunch of squiggly colored lines presumably monitoring his dad’s heart rate, oxygen, and breathing. “They’re taking good care of you here?”
“This is the best hospital in Boston,” Mother answered. “Dr. Chow is the best heart specialist.”
“Only the best for a Whitcomb,” Beck said dryly.
Mother frowned. “Why wouldn’t we want the best care for him?”
Eh, he was an asshole. “Of course he should have the best care.” He wasn’t sure why that bugged him. What made Paul Whitcomb more important than any Joe off the street? Just the fact that he had money. But the reality was, they did have money and could afford the best care, so why not? “It’s a nice room,” he added.
“It’s a fucking hospital,” Dad said, surprising a smile out of Beck.
“You won’t be here long,” he assured his dad. Not that he knew much about angioplasty, but he’d done some Googling while waiting at the airport and it should be straightforward, with a quick recovery. The harder part might be the lifestyle changes his dad would have to make after. Dad wasn’t obese by any stretch, but had thickened around the middle. He probably drank too much and didn’t exercise, and he most definitely worked too much.
Damn, that wasn’t guilt that made his chest tighten, was it?
“How was your flight?” Mother asked.
“Long.” Now he did grab the other chair, a stylish beige leather one, and pulled it closer to his mother’s. “And boring.”
“How long can you stay?” Dad asked.
“A few days.”
“That’s all?” Mom asked.
“Do you really want me here any longer than that?”
“Don’t start this, Beck.”
He swallowed a sigh. “I meant the question honestly, not in a snotty way. I’ll stay as long as I need to, but Dad should be okay in a few days, right?”
Her lips thinned. “He’ll be okay, but he’s not going to be back to normal right away. He’ll need to take some time off work.”
“No I won’t.” Dad spoke up, frowning.
“Yes you will. The doctor already said you can’t keep working the kind of long hours you have been. Paul, you should be thinking about retiring. Or at least cutting way back and letting someone else take over.” She gave Beck a pointed look.
“Why would you even think I’m capable of taking over?” Beck asked. “I got a business degree, but I spent nine years in the Navy, not running a multinational conglomerate. I know next to nothing about Whitcomb Industries.” And that’s fine with me.