“The surgery went well, or so they thought. An incredibly small percentage of patients don’t recover from anesthesia. Viv had a massive stroke. Maybe she gave up. Problem was she kept breathing and I had to deny feeding tubes, anything that would keep her artificially alive. She’d written all that down before going under, but Lee and Harriett . . . they didn’t want to let go.”
Walt looked up and saw tears falling down Dakota’s cheeks.
As much as the story burned, telling it was easier than it had been in years. Then again, there weren’t many he’d told.
Dakota approached him, slowly, and placed her hand on the side of his face. “Vivian was a lucky woman.”
He laughed. “She died before her twenty-seventh birthday.”
“Which would have happened with or without you.”
He sucked in a breath, blew it out slowly. Noise from inside the house grew, caught their attention.
Dakota dropped her hand to his arm, nodded toward the lake. “Let’s blow this off. Larry left a perfectly good bottle of whiskey at the boathouse.”
For a second, he thought of his dad . . . then remembered that his mother knew the history between him and Viv’s parents and still asked the Adams over for the party.
“A bottle of Crown just might do the trick.”
The sun blinded him as it spread over the lake. He closed his eyes nearly as quickly as he opened them. The pasty film in his mouth, coupled with the pounding in his head, reminded him why he didn’t drink very often.
“Dakota?” he groaned. She wasn’t in the bed. He could tell by the way he was stretched out over it.
He rolled away from the window and cracked one eye. He croaked out her name a second time, this time a little louder.
“I was wondering if I needed to start an IV on you.” His father’s voice surprised him.
Walt closed his eyes again.
When he opened them, his dad filled the doorway to the bedroom. “You look like shit, son.”
“Good to know I look how I feel.”
His dad moved into the room and set something green, thick, and liquid next to the bed. “Still the best cure for the morning after.”
Walt pushed his feet over the bed and cursed as his head kept moving long after all the motion in his body had stopped.
His dad laughed.
Walt lifted the glass and gave it a sniff. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“It’s been years since I needed this, but it works.”
Green really wasn’t a drinkable color, and this one was grainy with chalky bits of God knew what, and a splash of whiskey. The whiskey was the only thing Walt identified before emptying the glass. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and forced himself to keep the liquid down.
“Next time I want the IV,” he told his dad.
The bed dipped under his father’s weight. “Brenda told me what happened last night.”
Walt tried not to moan. Such an undignified sound from son to father.
“We’ve invited the Adams many times in the past few years. They’ve never shown up.”
“They think I’m responsible for Vivian’s death.”
“That’s preposterous. They lost their child, needed to blame the universe.”
The light from the window wasn’t as blinding when Walt turned his eyes on his dad. He’d gathered a couple more wrinkles in the past year. A few more gray strands in his hair. The civility in his father’s tone was new. “You’re usually riding my ass, Dad. Reminding me of my place. What’s up?”
Walter huffed, placed both palms on his knees. “I’m not getting younger.”
Walt waited for the riding to begin.
It didn’t.
“I don’t see you nearly enough. Don’t even know where you are half the time.”
“I live in California.”
“I’m talking about the trips out of the country.”
“A lot of parents don’t know where their adult children are. You’re not unique there.”
His dad moved from the bed, opened the blinds all the way. Surprisingly, the sun didn’t burn and Walt noted that his head no longer spun. He glanced into the empty glass, still felt the nasty taste on his tongue.
“What father doesn’t want their child to live close?”
“It’s hard to be close when all we do is argue over my choices when I’m here.”
“I-I know. I’m trying.” His dad met his gaze and held it.
This was good. The timing was strange, but the result was decent. “Where is Dakota?”
The grin that spread over his father’s face was more genuine that he’d seen in years. “She and your sister went to town to pick up a prescription.”
“Is she sick?”
Walter glanced at the ceiling. “Let me see if I can remember her words. ‘Dr. Eddy,’ she said, ‘since your son is sleeping off last night’s bender, and I can’t ask him, you’re going to have to write me a script.’ ” His dad was laughing.
“A script for what?”
“Seems your girlfriend woke with cystitis.”
Walt felt his shoulders drop. Urinary tract infections were common, and nothing to worry about. Still, blame rested on his shoulders. The term honeymoon cystitis was coined from patients who were overly sexually active. Considering how many times he and Dakota managed to get naked over the past couple of days, he wasn’t shocked.
“I like her.”
“We’re just dating, Dad.”
“Still like her. Did you help her buy the gift?”
Walt rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Gift?”
“I’ll take that as a no.” He moved toward the door. “She gave me a stethoscope dating back to the Civil War. Thoughtful.”
Walt found himself smiling. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“What the hell was in that?” He nodded toward the empty green glass.
“I’ll e-mail you the ingredients. Nice to know it still works.”
Chapter Eleven
Dakota reached over her keyboard and picked up the phone. She tucked the receiver between her shoulder and her chin. “Hey.”
“Do you always answer the phone that way?”
She finished the sentence she’d been writing and leaned back in her chair. “Doctor . . . so nice of you to call.”
He’d called her twice since their return from Colorado and it had only been three days. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much. Lots of water, antibiotics. I’m good.”