“Why even tell me that?” I pressed.
“I probably shouldn’t have.”
But he did. “Thanks.” I slinked past him, hauling my pool bag with me. “What’s the other guy’s name? The other one who is on my detail?”
“Joseph?”
“Yeah. Him. Does he know I got past you last night?” I was curious.
Kimble didn’t answer.
I giggled. “I guess I’ll keep that to myself then.”
As I wandered through the house, I passed my father’s room. The door was closed. I leaned in slightly, but it was quiet. I hesitated. I could knock, but something stopped me. I decided I’d check on him after my shower. I didn’t need a lecture on my bikini. Or how I wasted precious time sitting by the pool.
When I turned, I spotted the oil portrait of my mother hanging across the hall from his door. He said he liked to see her every morning when he left for work and when he returned at the end of the day.
I stared at her expression. I wondered what was behind it. Was it love? Admiration? Resentment? I knew very little about her. Most of the stories I created about my mother’s life revolved around this single portrait. It was the only display of her in the house.
What would she say now? Would she support my father? Those were questions I had asked a thousand times. Did she agree with how he used me? Did she think my value was tied to what family he could position me with? I walked away from her gaze, knowing I’d never have the answers.
* * *
It wasanother two days before I saw my father. He had turned me away every time I knocked on the door. This time, I took reinforcements.
Kimble used the key he had been given for emergencies and let me in my father’s bedroom.
“Dad?” I tiptoed, then hurried next to him. He was hunched over, coughing.
He pushed my arm away. “How did you get in?”
Kimble was standing in the doorway. His hulking figure loomed behind us.
“We were worried. I haven’t seen you. You aren’t taking calls or meetings.” The fact that it was the weekend didn’t have any bearing on whether my father continued business as usual.
I glanced at the rows of pill bottles lined up on his nightstand. “What’s all this?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s for the cough. So, I sleep at night.”
It was the first time I felt a buzz in the back of my head. An alarm bell. Something was wrong. It wasn’t bronchitis. I nodded at Kimble to step out of the room.
“Dad, I think I need to get you in to see your doctor,” I urged.
“No,” he snapped. “Kennedy, I’m fine.” He wobbled to his feet, and I moved out of his way. I didn’t say a word when he grabbed the doorframe to the bathroom to steady himself.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I have a meeting. I’m going to get ready.”
His silk striped pajamas looked like they had been worn for days. His cheeks were sallow. His voice scratchy and soft.
“I think you need to rest some more. Can’t you reschedule the meeting?” I pleaded, surprised at the rising panic in my chest.
His knuckles turned white as he pivoted toward me without letting go of the arch. “Business continues whether I have a cold or not.”
“It’s not a cold,” I argued. “You can barely stand.”
He closed his eyes. But before he could fire back at me, I saw his knees buckle. I rushed toward him. “Dad!” I caught him before he slumped to the floor.