My father hesitated, as if words were coins and each one cost him.Maybe they did. Maybe my mother’s long illness had beggared him. “She has an infection of the bone—osteomyelitis—which has weakened her back. Quite curable. But she’s having an operation on Friday to strengthen the affected discs and alleviate the pressure on her spine.”
“I know. Meg told me.” No need to mention she’d spilled the beans before I left New York. “How long will she be in the hospital?”
“At least overnight. Then she goes back into rehab for two or three more weeks.”
“So long?”
“She needs to continue on IV antibiotics for six weeks. She could go to a clinic as an outpatient, but it takes several hours to administer all her medication, and travel is difficult for her now. It’s easier to do it there.”
“But howisshe?”
“The doctors say the procedure will make a great difference.”
I waited expectantly. But apparently that was all he had to say. All my mother wanted him to say?
My father patted my hand. “‘Do not let your heart be troubled.’ Your mother doesn’t want a lot of fuss. We must have faith.”
I appreciated his reassurance. But I wasn’t one of his ex-parishioners or vets. I was his daughter. I wanted more. Also, I was supposed to be supporting him. I plunged ahead. “And how are you?”
“As you see.” He sipped. Grimaced slightly. “Shall we go?”
When I was younger, my father spoke from the pulpit with the voice of God. Or how I imagined God sounded, anyway—sort of kindly and remote and just above my level of comprehension. The new pastor sounded like a camp counselor. I half expected him to hand out participation trophies to the congregation simply for showing up to church that morning.
The service over, the people flowed from the pews and out of thechurch, dividing between their new pastor in the vestibule and my father on the steps outside. Aunt Phee sailed through the crowd, bearing down on us like a luxury liner in a red jacket and pearls, Miss Wanda in her wake.
Crap.I’d forgotten to tell my father she’d dropped by the house last night.
“Um. Dad...”
“Ashton.” Aunt Phee stopped directly in front of him. “I’ve made a reservation at the club for dinner. Five o’clock. If that’s convenient.” Her tone made it clear she expected him, convenient or not.
My lanky father stooped to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Phee.”
“You may pick me up at the house. You might come early so we can have a proper visit.”
“We’ll see,” my father said. “I have open hours at the veterans’ center this afternoon.”
“But it’s Sunday,” I said.
“The Lord’s work is never done,” Wanda Crocker said piously.
“Even the Lord rested on Sunday,” I muttered.
“You may join us,” Aunt Phee said to me. A command? Or a question? Her gaze swept from my sweater to my boots. “You’ll want to change first.”
Bite me,I thought. “Thanks, Aunt Phee, but I thought I’d go to the rehab center today. I want to spend some time with Mom.”
“Your mother is in no shape to entertain visitors,” Aunt Phee said.
“Jo isn’t a visitor,” my father said. “She’s Abby’s daughter.”
I threw him a grateful look.
“Suit yourself.” Aunt Phee’s mouth puckered. “You always have.”
Now that I’d dodged her dinner invitation, guilt crept in. “Maybe another time,” I offered.
She sniffed.
