Page 22 of Their Stormy Reunion

I copied the notes into my AI program, typing out a prompt to translate them into plain English that even a stressed-out daughter could understand. This program was my secret weapon—a paid subscription with all the bells and whistles. I’d used it for everything from debugging a tricky piece of code to comparing the ingredients in high-end cosmetics and finding out what lower cost brands had the same ingredients. I’d even joked once that it was better than therapy. Now, it was my lifeline for Dad’s care.

My heart twisted as I scrolled through the AI-generated summary. First off, Dad had been wrong when he told me he was “for sure” going to die. The doctors weren’t saying that—not yet. The Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma was back, and yes, it was more aggressive this time, but they had a plan. They’d harvested stem cells from his previous remission and that would allow him to endure chemo this time without destroying his bone marrow. Yep, Knoxville’s Cancer Institute really was the shit, just like Michael had said.

I fought back a grin when I read some of the things that the AI offered to improve his mood: hobbies like knitting or model-building, journaling, or joining an online support group. I almost snorted. Dad? With knitting needles? Yeah, that was going to happen. And journaling? I’d be lucky if he didn’t toss the notebook across the room. I guess that would be better than having him stab me with a knitting needle.

I remembered he used to be on a bowling team. The idea of his old bowling cronies coming over… that had potential. I made a mental note to check with Mom about which friends were still around and willing to visit.

When I read over some of his symptoms like mouth sores, itching and rashes, fatigue, vomiting, swelling lymph nodes that could be painful, or pain in his extremities, I just felt bad for him. He was going to have it rough. He’d only started the chemo three weeks ago, according to the doctor’s notes he was only on his first cycle, and he would need at least five cycles. If he was lucky, maybe only four.

Fuck.

This was going to be a hard road.

I transferred the information from my laptop to my tablet so I could go to talk to Mom. Getting up from my old wooden desk chair, I grimaced. I so needed a massage or a chiropractor. Thinking about the setup I’d had at my office and my home office with my Aeron chair made me want to cry. Maybe I should just buy one and have it shipped here. Damn, if I was going to stay here for the long haul, I probably should.

Mom wasn’t in the living room, dining room, or the kitchen. When I looked out in the carport I saw that her station wagon was gone. How had I not heard her leave?

“Isla! I need you.”

Well, that I could definitely hear. I went down the hall and knocked on my parents’ bedroom door. “Dad, Mom’s not here. Can I help you?”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She took the car.”

A coughing fit started, the sound ripping through the air like sandpaper against raw skin. I winced but waited it out. Each ragged wheeze made me want to storm in and do...something. Anything. Not that I had a clue what that would be.

When the coughing finally stopped, I knocked again.

“Dad, can I please come in?”

“All right.” I could hear the reluctance in his voice.

When I opened the door it took everything I had not to grimace at the smell of sick. You could tell that somebody had recently vomited in the room. That, along with the smell of sweat and dirty sheets made it impossible to breathe in through my nose. I saw that Dad was sleeping on the left side of the king-sized bed. The right side of the bed was carefully made, a silent testament to Mom’s vigil beside him every night.

“Can I open a window?”

“No, that makes me too cold.” His tone was curt. Nothing new there.

“During Chicago winters I sleep with a weighted blanket. Why don’t I order you one of those to try, then you can have the window open? It’s May, so we’re having nice nights.”

“What in the hell is a weighted blanket?”

Yep, I remembered that scowl. It had been pointed my way for years.

“It’s really soft on the outside and has plastic pellets on the inside that will apply more weight on you, making you warmer. It’s great,” I grinned. Hopefully my speech would convince him.

“Pellets? Why in the hell would I want to lay under something that is basically a bean bag chair? Think about it, Fallon, that’s just not logical.”

Dad’s face, which used to be ruddy with health, was now pale and thin as he berated me. Somehow, his putdown didn’t have the same effect. I couldn’t tell if it was because he seemed so much weaker, or if I finally had my head screwed on straight.

“All I can tell you is that it works for me and tens of thousands of other people across America.”

“Sounds like a bunch of suckers to me.”

Okay, that one hit hard. Maybe I was still susceptible to him belittling me. Dammit, get it together, Fallon. Come to think of it, if he was going to play like that, then I could be upfront about things, couldn’t I?

“Dad, I just think that this room needs to be aired out a bit.”