The nurse fired back questions with the speed of someone used to sorting wheat from chaff. “How long did the episode last? Any chest pain, shortness of breath?”
Emily relayed the facts. “A few seconds. No chest pain, but he was winded. He’s eating less, seems more tired, but no other acute symptoms.”
There was a pause, the sound of keys clacking. “Any history of heart issues?”
“Not that I know of,” Emily said. “He’s had some anemia before. Otherwise, it’s just the cancer.”
The nurse hummed. “Has he fallen before?”
Emily thought back, fast-forwarding through the last month of family meals, movie nights, and Roy’s walks around the property. “Not that I’ve seen. This is new.”
The nurse put her on hold, but Emily could hear the muted murmur of a hand-over-mouth as Jeanette relayed the story to the doctor. She waited, stomach in knots, tapping the pen against her desk until she realized she was leaving dents in the finish.
When the line reconnected, the nurse’s voice was softer, more personal. “Doc says to monitor for the next few hours—check blood pressure, make sure he’s not bleeding from his nose, mouth, or ears, or vomiting. If he gets short of breath, or faints again, call 911.” She hesitated, then added, “Sometimes, I can tell you as general advice and not specifically in your father’s case, these spells can mean the cancer is progressing, or there’s internal bleeding. But they could also just be the body saying slow down. You’re not alone—just call if you’re worried.”
Emily thanked her, hung up, and let her head rest in her hands for a moment before she went to the front parlor. She found Roy on the couch; a blanket draped over his shoulders. He had a stubborn set to his jaw, but his color was off, a washed-out version of himself. Patricia sat close by, knitting needles clacking with a nervous speed, though her hands never faltered.
Daniel stood behind the sofa, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He saw Emily, caught her eye, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question:What now?
Roy spotted her and tried for a smile. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, voice raspier than before.
Emily perched on the edge of the coffee table. “No, but you scared the crap out of us. You’re overdoing it lately.” Subtly,Emily looked for any sign of a nosebleed, anything around his ears. Nothing.
He shrugged, then winced. “You know me. Drama queen.”
Patricia’s needles clacked faster, but her face betrayed nothing. “You should listen to Emily,” she said, not looking up. “She knows what she’s saying.”
Roy made a face, but he didn’t argue.
Emily glanced at Daniel. “Why don’t you three hang out here for a bit? I’ll make some tea.” She shot Daniel a look, and he got the message:keep him resting.
In the kitchen, Cassie was in her element, two children and a plate of cookies arrayed around her like the world’s messiest solar system. She caught Emily’s eye, wiped her hands on her apron, and leaned in close. “Is it bad?”
“Don’t know yet,” Emily said. “We’re supposed to monitor. If he faints again, we call for help.”
Cassie nodded, mouth set in a grim line. “Let me know if you need me to take the girls into town to pick up pizza for dinner or anything.” She tickled Charlotte under the chin, earning a giggle.
“Will do. Will you check on Chantelle for me?”
Cassie nodded again.
Emily fixed a tray—tea for Roy, water for herself, a fistful of napkins in case of spills. Back in the parlor, she set the tray down, poured a cup, and handed it to Roy. He sipped, then coughed, then grinned at her over the rim. “See? I’m fine.”
Emily let herself laugh. “Only just.”
After a few minutes, Roy’s breathing evened out. He leaned back into the couch, and some color crept back into his face. “Maybe I did just stand up too fast,” he said, but it sounded like an apology.
“Maybe,” Emily said. She didn’t believe it for a second.
CHAPTER TEN
Emily ended her days with a ritual: clean the family kitchen, have Daniel take out the trash, and preset the coffeemaker for the morning. By eight that night, the kitchen was already rinsed in lemon-mint sanitizing spray, and the sink full of soapy, soaking mugs from the tea she’d made for Roy. She wiped down the stove with a ferocity that rattled the top of it, not caring about the ghostly afterimage the cleaner left on the glass top. Every swipe was a small attempt at order.
The dishwasher ran its marathon under the window, cycling the last traces of dinner off of plates, pots, and pans. Emily leaned against the edge of the sink, eyes closed, letting the vibration of the appliance settle her nerves. A wave of nausea crested, the now-familiar assault that felt less like “morning sickness” and more like being on a roller-coaster drop at any odd hour her body decided. She breathed in through her nose. The scent of disinfectant helped.
The sound of boots in the hall made her straighten. Daniel stepped into the kitchen; hair still damp from his shower but already mussed by nervous hands. He wore his favorite flannel—third button down missing, cuffs frayed—and a pair of sweatpants that had once belonged to Roy, that she had found in the attic. Daniel’s face was pale; lips pressed in a flat line.
She knew, before he said a word, that Roy was being difficult. Daniel hovered at the threshold, as if the room might spit him back out. “He’s up,” he said. “Didn’t eat anything I brought in there. Says he wants to walk the grounds, but I don’t think he’s steady enough.”
