Page 101 of Body Shot

Yeah, I’ve been more miserable in my life. Hell Week, rolling wet in the sand until my skin was being abraded everyfuckingwhere, including my dick and balls. My time in Afghanistan, so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open, so freezing I couldn’t feel my feet. The rescue mission in the Indian Ocean when I spent hours in the fucking frigid water before climbing up the side of an oil tanker that had been seized by rebel gunmen. My current hangover headache and uneasy stomach are mild compared to those experiences. Mental toughness got me through those situations, but it’s failing me now. What the fuck? Why do I feel like all the air and light has been sucked out of my life?

It’s what I deserve. I let people down. After years as a SEAL, dedicating myself to service, I thought I’d conquered that. Apparently not.

Around eight o’clock as we’re getting ready to board, I call Marco. “Hey, man. I’ve got a little problem.”

“Yeah?” Marco sounds like he just woke up, a little hoarse. “Whassup?”

“I’m at the airport. My dad had a heart attack so I’m going home to see him.”

“Jesus! Seriously? He okay?”

“He’s alive.” I grimace. “They’re doing some tests. I’ll find out more when I get there.”

“Hell, Beck.Youokay?”

“Yeah.” Marco knows how much I detest going home, which is why I rarely do it. “I’m okay.” I’m kinda not, but whatever. I’m not going to get into it all right now. “Not sure how long I’ll be gone. Probably a few days, anyway. You guys’ll be okay without me?” Like I have to ask.

“Nah, man, things are gonna fall down around our asses with you gone for a few days.”

I scrape out a dry chuckle. “Asshole. Sorry about this.”

“Hey, don’t apologize. Not like you had any control over it. And yeah, you have to go see him. Make sure your mom’s okay.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.” She fell apart the day Aidan died, but since then, I’ve never seen so much as one tear or flicker of sadness, fear or even love. She might be a bit upset, but she’ll handle this. “I’ll let you know what’s happening when I know more.”

“Yeah. Whatever you need, man, just let us know.”

“Thanks.” I end the call and lower my phone.

Traveling sucks. Sitting around waiting. Sitting on the plane waiting. A five-hour flight to Philadelphia, then waiting in that airport. I use that time to make calls to my financial advisor and my lawyer, for some discussion and to make arrangements for an idea I have. The next flight is short. Then I’m in Boston. I only have my carry-on, so no waiting for luggage to arrive. I locate the driver of the car service holding up a sign with my name on it and follow him out to the town car at the curb.

“Where would you like to go, Mr. Whitcomb? Home? Or to the hospital?”

Home. It’s not my home. Hasn’t been for a long time. “Might as well go right to the hospital. Thanks.”

I watch the city sights slide by as we drive from the airport to the hospital in the spring evening, familiar even after all the years away.

Mom texted me during the day that they did blood tests and EKG testing and the angioplasty is scheduled for tomorrow, and she gave me Dad’s room number at the hospital. As I walk the corridors and ride the elevator, my intestines twist into ever tighter knots and my muscles tense. My steps stiffen and slow. I pause outside the room, push back my shoulders, and step into the private room to find both my parents here, Mother sitting beside the bed, Dad in the bed looking pale and drawn. The hospital room is like a luxury hotel, with framed pictures on the walls, attractive drapes over the windows, and a lamp sitting on an oak bedside table.

“Beck.” Mother stands and moves toward me. Dressed in black pants and a gray silky cardigan over a heavy silk, pale gray blouse, she does in fact look as elegant and poised as ever. I catch the hint of tightness at the corners of her eyes though, and the stiffness of her smile. We embrace politely. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

Mother moves away and my attention focuses on Dad. I advance closer to the bed. “Hey, Dad.”

“Beck.” Dad’s normally strong, deep voice is faint. “How are you?”

One corner of my mouth lifts. “I’m fine. You’re the one we’re worried about.”

“I’m good.” Dad rolls 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.” I glance at her, still standing at the end of the bed. “Have a seat, Mother.” I gesture 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? My gaze roves over the medical equipment in the room, including a monitor with a bunch of squiggly colored lines presumably monitoring Dad’s heart rate, oxygen and breathing. “They’re taking good care of you here?”

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