Page 41 of Pity Play

“As all right as he was before.” She marks something on the chart before putting it back and walking out of the room.

Slumping down in the chair next to the bed, it suddenly hits me how very lucky it was that my dad didn’t break his neck when he fell, or worse. He could have died. I close my eyes while I wait for his return and try to formulate a course of action. My brain tells me to be calm and pleasant, but my heart is saying something much different. Which is why when my dad is wheeled back into the room, I practically shout, “Thank goodness you’re okay!”

He's lying face-up on a gurney, so I can see his expression clearly. Confusion is written across his features. “I wouldn’t call being in traction okay.”

“Of course not.” I stand up and move to his side while his attendants start to transfer him to his bed. They’re very careful to go slowly so as not to cause him more discomfort. As they reattach the pulleys to his arm and leg, I explain, “I just panicked when I got here, and you were gone.”

“Thought I bit the big one, huh?”

So much for being touched by my concern.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” I tell him truthfully.

He remains quiet while the nurse puts a blood pressure cuff on his arm. She fusses around for a bit longer before telling him, “Call if you need anything, Mr. Phillips.” Then she walks out of the room.

“Did you have breakfast?” I ask my dad.

“They brought me some oatmeal a while ago, but I couldn’t eat it. It was awful.”

“How can you screw up oatmeal?”

He rolls his eyes before explaining, “You can overcook it, under-season it, and serve it soupy. They did all the above.”

I reach for the grocery bag that I brought with me. “How do sausage and mushroom crepes sound?”

“You’d better not be joking around, Luke.” My dad’s warning nearly makes me laugh.

“I would never joke about crepes.” Walking toward the door, I add, “I’ll just go heat this up for you at the nurses’ station.”

It takes me a grand total of two minutes to transfer my dad’s food to a paper plate and give it a quick zap in the microwave. When I get back to his room, he says, “I hope you brought a lot. I’m starving.”

I put the plate down on the rolling tabletop next to his bed before cutting the crepes into bite-sized pieces. “You want me to feed you?” I ask him.

He lifts his good arm. “I got it.”

Sitting down on the chair next to him, I watch while he picks up a plastic fork. Stabbing it into a piece of crepe, he moves it around the plate to pick up the sauce, then he puts it into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he chews it and swallows before saying, “So much better than soupy oatmeal.”

“I’d like to take that as a compliment,” I joke. “But there really isn’t anything much worse than soupy oatmeal.”

A small smile begins to form, but he hurries to suppress it. “It’s good, Luke. Really good.”

His praise makes me feel like a little kid who just hit a home run in the ninth inning of a Little League championship game. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You serve this at your restaurant?” I detect a note of irritation.

“Not at Capon,” I tell him. “But I served it at the last place I worked.”

“I like the rosemary and thyme,” he says. “Very earthy tasting.”

We don’t say anything else while he finishes the food on his plate. Once he’s done, I ask, “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Dad …” I want to ask him a million questions, but I don’t want to make him angry.

“What, Luke?”

I want to ask him about the specials at Pop’s but I don’t want him to think I’m checking up on him. “I’m really glad you’re doing okay.”

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