Page 191 of Smoke and Fire
He nodded vaguely. “We meet up at Christmas sometimes. She calls, writes, and sends me a birthday present every year. We’re friends.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah. My adopted parents, whom I think of as my real parents, struggled with infertility for years. Then Inessa came along, and then me. A year after they brought me into the family, my adopted Mom was diagnosed with cancer. She died six months later.”
“Oh.”
The startled word flew out of me. Bastian didn’t seem to hear it, and I was grateful that he kept going. My quick math meant he would have been just under two years old when he lost his mother. Probably didn't even remember her.
“Dad took care of me and Inessa. When I was old enough, I helped. Inessa's medical conditions have always been significant. She’s almost forty now, and we were told she may not make it that far. Her heart is weak. She was born with a ventricular defect that was fixed around three months old, but she’s always struggled ever since with her lungs, her blood sugar, and her thyroid.” He shook his head. “She’s been getting worse recently and it’s so hard to watch.”
A beat of quiet followed his revelation. I attempted to soak up all he’d revealed, startled. Inessa was the girl in the pictures that I’d seen at his house, then. It had been obvious he had some people in his life, but I hadn’t known where they were.
“I see.”
“My father—we’ll see him next—declined in health the past couple of years. Right before last fire season, Dad had to live somewhere else. I couldn't take care of him anymore. Inessa and I did fine together until her health became worse. When fire season started last year, I had to bring her here."
His words thickened a little, and he swallowed. Something burdened his voice now, and it sounded like guilt.
“This is where she lives?” I asked.
“Yes. We tried everything before we went to a full time place like this. Respite care. Other facilities. Daytime programs. But I couldn’t make it work with my fire job and have it be safe for her. She's just too sick. She's been living here since the beginning of last summer.”
He glanced at the building again.
“It’s a wonderful place. They take excellent care of her. They provide her with activities and help me to speak with her as much as I can. It’s home for her now. Her home. Her place. Her people. She loves that. She’s thrived amidst her medical challenges. I had planned for her to stay here only during fire season, but she asked to stay full time last fall. I couldn't tell her no.”
“That’s a tough situation, Bastian.”
I reached over and put a hand on his arm. He didn’t flinch, but I couldn’t tell whether he welcomed the touch or not. He still hadn’t looked at me. By sheer willpower, I didn’t move my hand away.
“Yes, it is hard,” he said. “This sort of facility costs a lot of money, which is why I stayed in wildland fire. With high-fire years, I could rake in overtime, make money, and live out of Dad’s house. His mortgage isn't that high and I've almost paid it off. The problem is that Dad's care facility is just as expensive as Inessa’s.”
The puzzle pieces shunted together.
“They are the reason you need Jess?” I asked.
“Jess,” he murmured with a slight nod. “Years ago, Dad struggled under some of Inessa's medical debt. To help out, I threw a book together to see if I could sell something that didn’t cost money to make. Dad had to retire early because of his . . . challenges . . . and there wasn’t a lot of money coming in. I’d always loved to write, so I wrote a cheesy romance novel and sent it to a bunch of people.”
“Pri?”
He laughed. “No. Pri heard about it from another agent that had just rejected it. She saw promise, so she reached out, suggested a few things, and I did them. She decided to take a chance, because she knew an editor at a mid-sized press that wanted something like it. It worked out, so I kept writing up through book ten. The publisher handled my frequent releases pretty consistently. I was able to build up a big base of books fast, although my readership wasn't super strong at that point.”
A group of people strolled by, arm in arm, then disappeared into the building. I watched them go as his story unfolded. Bastian revealed more about himself in this conversation than I had ever thought possible. Facets began to piece together. The pictures at his Dad’s house. His quiet manner. The deep desire for a veil between him and his readers.
He sighed, drawing my attention back. “Then Dad's diagnosis came.”
A pause lingered behind. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, with a little squeeze on his arm.
“Early-onset dementia.”
He said the words with a voice like steel. That diagnosis must have felt like drowning. With his mother dead at a young age, he was likely close with his father. Probably very close as they cared for Inessa together.
Did he see his father’s sickness as a betrayal? It would explain the anger I sensed in him.
“Dad regressed slowly, then all at once. He began to struggle at work with his engineering job. Then he had to quit. It worsened from there. Once he lost his routine, he lost himself. I had to put him into a memory care place a year and a half ago. His body is mostly healthy. His mind is . . . not.”
My issues of lost love and thwarted plans seemed to pale in comparison to what Bastian faced every day. Caregiver for two medically needy people. Financial supporter for them as well. No maternal influence. Now, no paternal influence either.
