Page 45 of Direct Action

“Dr. Johnson,” my mom greeted. “This is my daughter, Chloe.”

“Chloe,” the too-young doctor returned with a smile.

Thankfully he didn’t tack on a “nice to meet you” when we both knew the circumstances behind our introduction were anything but nice.

They were horrid.

Neither did he assure me my father was in good hands or that he would heal, or any other pleasantry you’d expect from a doctor before he launched in.

Another boon.

And with the way my life had spiraled, I’d take all the bonuses I could get.

Big and small.

“Your father is quite the character,” he told me with a twitch of his lips. “He doesn’t like needles and made certain I knew how deep his dislike ran.”

“He’s always hated needles,” I muttered.

Another bizarre emotion—knowing Hank Baughman was the same man he’d always been, minus most of his memories.

And the ones he had left were quickly vanishing.

He was him, but not.

“Your father conveyed that with an impressive array of four-letter words.”

Dr. Johnson didn’t look offended, if the broad smile was anything to go by.

“He cursed at you?” I asked in shock.

“Not at me,” the doctor corrected. “At the needle. Your dad’s got quite the colorful sense of humor.”

Shot. To. The. Heart.

“He does,” I whispered.

He gave me another smile, this one full of kindness.

“I’ve given the nurses silicone gel. It’ll help with the scarring.” Dr. Johnson lost his grin and quietly told me, “I promise it looks worse than it is. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Will he remember the fall?” I asked.

“When I spoke to him, he remembers tripping and hitting the table. He doesn’t remember how it happened. Though he was in good spirits and told the nurse he was getting clumsy in his old age and might need a walker soon.”

More pain sliced through me. That was totally something my dad would say.

“Right,” I mumbled.

Dr. Johnson reached into his pocket and handed me his card. “If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

I had loads of concerns.

None of which the good doctor could help me with.

On that thought, I glanced around the lobby, looking for Ryan.

As I’d done a lot over the last ten-plus months, I did so lying to myself. The lies had started as fibs—small at first, like my dad wasn’t getting forgetful; he just had a lot going on. Then they transitioned into my dad’s lapses in memory are normal, he’s just getting older.