He must have forgotten it.
The call goes to voicemail, but I scoop up his phone and hold it in my lap, happy to keep track of it until he gets back.
Turning my attention toward the mounted TV in the corner, I try to focus on Let’s Make a Deal, though I’ve never understood the appeal of that show. My parents, on the other hand, have gone to tapings more times than they can count on both hands, and they love to tell people all about how they were contestants on the original show back in the day.
The swift vibration in my lap forces me to glance down out of habit, only the second I lay eyes on the screen, I immediately wish that I’d never seen it at all.
MY FATHER’S BODY IS covered in hospital blankets, wires and electrodes coming off of his person, machines beeping and breathing for him. The doctors were able to get his heart going again, but his brain had been without oxygen for too long at that point.
He’s literally a vegetable.
Just a shell of a man, no real substance on the inside.
Ironic.
“I just hope you know how happy it made your father when you agreed to take over WellesTech,” Lisette, my father’s wife, says as we take up the two guest chairs in his ICU room. She is, without question, several years my junior, but she keeps calling me “sweetie” and “honey.”
Her eyes are bloodshot and she’s been crying since she got here. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she might actually love him.
“Let’s be real here. It’s not like I had much of a choice,” I say. “If I’d have said no, he was going to sell to Samuelson.”
“Who?”
“Roy Samuelson,” I say. Surely she knows of him. He’s been one of my father’s best friends since his days at Rutgers.
Lisette chuckles, lifting a Kleenex to her nose. “Are you sure about that? Your father never mentioned anything to me about it. And actually, he’d been helping Roy sort out his bankruptcy case. He just filed last week. You didn’t see? There was an article on CNN. Let me see if I can find it …”
She pulls up her phone and a moment later, I’m scanning an article that proves my father is and forever will be a lying, manipulative bastard.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
The room turns black for a second and when I come to, my fists are balled so tight my nails are digging into my palms.
“And thank goodness. He was always asking your father for loans. It broke his heart to turn him down the last few years. Roy just kept asking for more and more …” Lisette prattles on. “Anyway, your father’s been wanting to unload WellesTech for a while now and finally retire. But you know him. Such a control freak. He didn’t trust it with just anyone, especially since the brand is built around the Welles name. So that’s why he wanted you to carry on his legacy.”
“So it made him look good,” I muse.
“I don’t understand?” she blinks.
Of course she wouldn’t.
“Never mind.” I rest my elbows on the tops of my thighs. I can’t even bring myself to look at him now. “There was never a terminal illness, was there?”
Lisette studies me for a moment. “Sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He told me he was dying,” I chuff.
I can’t believe I fell for that shit.
She reaches for the cross necklace dangling from her tan décolletage. The giant diamond solitaire on her finger glimmers in the low light of the room.
“Why would he tell you that?” she asks. “He wasn’t dying. Or if he was, he did a darn good job of hiding it from me.”
Lies.
All of it.
I need some fresh air. A stiff drink. Aerin.
“You need anything, Lisette?” I ask, standing. “I’ve got to get out of here for a bit.”
“No, thanks.” She dabs a tissue under her perfectly straight nose.
“I’ll be back,” I say, heading out of the room. Reaching into my pocket, I feel around for my phone, but it isn’t there. I must have left it in the waiting room.
Crazy how I didn’t even notice.
The last two hours have been nothing short of surreal, and I spent most of that time staring at his soon-to-be corpse, trying to see how many good memories I could muster.
I got to six before I started drawing blanks, but I figure it’s better than nothing.
Pushing through the double doors when I get to the waiting room, I find Aerin exactly where I left her.
“Hey. You’re not going to believe this,” I say.
She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder and handing me my phone.
“Aerin?” I ask.
Her lower lip quivers, her chin is tucked, and she whispers “excuse me” as she weaves between other hospital patrons.