“Of course, I’m here,” I answer his stupid question. I’m exactly where he should be—maybe where all of us should be. “That’s what you do when someone calls you to let you know that your father is sick. In his case, terminal. You at least check on him.”
“Look, I’m currently busy, and later tonight, I have a date,” he states.
“How about tomorrow?” I try to hide the rage.
“I have an early meeting,” he says absently. I hear the keyboard on the other side of the line. He’s either searching for a time to see me or working.
“We have to meet,” I say dryly.
He sighs. “I’ll send you my assistant’s information. You might be able to squeeze in tomorrow between meetings.”
“Could you just meet me for brunch instead of making up shit to avoid what’s happening? It’s Sunday, for fuck’s sake,” I say angrily.
“I’m aware of the days,” he barks the words. “It’s also Monday in Australia. Not that you need to know my schedule. Just know that I am a busy man.”
His condescending tone makes my blood boil. He’s not the only busy person. I have patients to check on tomorrow and appointments on Monday. A surgery scheduled for Tuesday. I had to find a doctor to cover for me at the hospital.
“People depend on me, and yet, here I am.”
“Is it because you’re waiting for Daddy’s money?” He asks, and the bitterness in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “Finally, the rightful son is getting everything he deserves.”
If he were here, I’d punch him in the face. “How could I forget you’re a fucking asshole?”
“Well, this is your reminder. See you in a few years or—never,” he says, before the phone goes silent.
Henry: My assistant is Sophia Aragon. I copied her to this text. Set up a meeting with her.
Hayes: I need to be home by tomorrow night. I have a practice to run and patients who depend on me. Our father died. The least you could do is listen to me, so we can make some arrangements.
Sophia: I’ll take care of the issue, Mr. Aldridge.
Sophia: I can squeeze you in tomorrow at one. I’ll send you the address and a car if you need it.
I realize that she sent me that last text outside the group chat, and I think I like his assistant a lot more than I hate him. After I put my phone away, I finally pay attention to the lawyer who is by the desk, waiting for me.
“It seems like it’s just going to be me today,” I state.
If Henry, who lives here, is not going to come along, I doubt that the rest would join me on such short notice. I don’t even know where they live.
“What is it that you need from me?” I ask, because if he called just to hand me my father’s estate, I don’t want it or give a shit about it.
“Since you’re the only one here, you’re going to have to take care of your father’s remains,” he states, matter-of-factly. “There’s a final will and testament. But I can’t read it until all his sons are in the same room—and it has to happen in Baker’s Creek.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? Shouldn’t it be at your office?”
“That’s part of his last wishes. My firm is paid to execute it.”
“I can’t speak for my brothers, but I don’t want anything that belongs to my father,” I explain calmly.
He spreads some documents on the desk. A power of attorney is the first one I see. It’s under my name.
“Why me?”
“Actually, he signed one for each of his sons, but since you’re the first one here…”
I look at the other papers, they’re also POAs, but they each have a different name.
“So, I’m fucked,” I finish his sentence.
“Look, I don’t know anything about your family dynamic,” he says. “All I know is that you’re officially responsible for his remains. Now, we need to discuss his will. There are a few elements that affect not only his descendants but the town of Baker’s Creek.”
“Try Henry,” I suggest. “He likes money.”
He gives me another paper to sign. “Look, this affects the town and whoever lives there. I can’t disclose the terms of the will until all the interested parties are in the same room. Do you think you can have them in Baker’s Creek in a couple of weeks?”
I rub my temples a couple of times. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Here’s the number for your father’s assistant.” He gives me a card. “She might be able to help you take care of everything.”
Jerome Parrish leaves promptly. I climb up the stairs, heading to the fifth floor where I assume the master suite is, but I stop at the fourth level when I spot a hospital bed. There’s a person standing next to the bed, her back to me.
“Was he conscious?” I ask, as I walk toward her.
“No,” she answers. “Are you one of his sons?”
I nod in response.
She gives me a sad smile. “Last night he asked if his children had come to visit. It was the first time since I came that he requested water or more morphine. He chatted with me for a few minutes. He was a very pleasant man.”
Staring at my father, I realize that he was, for the most part, kind and friendly, but only in small doses. Complete strangers got more of his good side than any of his sons ever have.
“He was … charming,” I agree, finally looking at the bed, staring at the small, fragile man who lays peacefully in front of me.
In all my life, I’ve never seen him in bed lounging—or even sleeping. He woke up early and went to bed late. He doesn’t look like the William Aldridge I knew. I am as tall as my father was, six three. I remember he’d fill an entire room with his presence. Everyone around him respected him. Some even feared him.
Now, he looks so small, so different from the man who exuded power and total control. The doctor in me wants to know what happened. How long has he been sick? He could’ve contacted us before things got so bad.
Why didn’t he?
“Where is his chart?”
She hands me over a binder; there’s nothing important other than his vitals, which were taken hourly, and the doses of morphine they administered.
“May I?” I ask her, as she’s about to remove the needles attached to his arms.
Carefully, I do it. Just the same way I did it when I was a resident with patients who were about to get discharged.
Why couldn’t he call before?
I might not like him, but I would’ve been here. Fuck, I am here.
“Is this what you wanted?” I ask. “To die alone without anyone to give a fuck about you?”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Yes, in San Francisco,” I answer. “Did he leave any instructions about…?”
“His assistant already made the arrangements for his cremation,” she informs me. “You can call her to see where you can pick up the ashes.”
When I’m done disconnecting him from the machines and the IV, I caress his forehead and kiss it. “I’m sorry. I hope you rest in peace.”
The employees from the crematorium arrive only a few minutes after I say goodbye. After them, the hospice employees show up to pack and move the medical equipment.