"This is wonderful," the nurse said, her eyes alight as she lifted the painting. "Is this his house in Ireland?"
Timmie looked at the clumsy rendering with sheep standing as large as cows in the background. "It's his grandmother's home. Dad's never been there."
"Really?" the nurse asked, really surprised. "I could have sworn he grew up there."
Timmie smiled. "So could he."
"How about photos?" she asked. "Those are very important. Especially the rest of his family, your mother and sisters."
"I'm working on it. For now, though, it'll only be me."
The nurse blinked, trying hard to understand. This kind of nurse would, Timmie thought. A lovely woman, truly delighted to be here with her little old people, happy to reacquaint them with their treasures every time she passed by. This was the kind of nurse who saw her career not as a convenience, but a calling.
It was to Alex Raymond's credit that he could still command a staff like that, which was one of the reasons Timmie knew Murphy was wrong.
"Your dad's in his room, if you want to see him."
Timmie knew the nurse would probably be very understanding if Timmie said no, she didn't want to see him, especially after spending all day wading around in the detritus of his life.
It wouldn't make Timmie understand any better. Or feel any better about herself. After all, one of these days she was going to have to grow up and deal with it all. So she went on in to where he was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands on knees, patiently watching the wall.
The room was lovely, sunny and pastel and comfortable, with her father's easy chair along one wall and the sunflower quilt his grandmother had made him neatly folded on his bed. The staff had even figured a way to tuck a bookshelf in the corner so he could be with some of his beloved books. Not that he could read them anymore. He remembered their friendship, though. He stroked them like cherished children every time he went near.
"Hi, Daddy."
Slowly he looked over, his eyes clouded and vague. Fogged, ruined mirrors that could no longer reflect. Timmie fought the same damn old clutch of grief she'd struggled with for as long as she could remember.
"What do you want?" he asked, frowning.
Timmie sat down. The nurse, walking in behind her on crepe-shod feet, put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't expect it to get better yet just because he's here," she said quietly.
Timmie wanted to hit her. She wanted to hit something.
"I just wanted to say hello, Joe," she said instead, understanding more than the nurse thought.
He tilted his head in that odd, wry greeting he'd learned from his own father. "Then, hello."
As she sat there in that quiet room beside her silent father, Timmie tried to convince herself that there might well be some danger in Restcrest. People might be dying here who had no business doing it, people whose only illness was confusion. Her father could be in real danger.
Timmie studied the sharp relief of his cheekbones, the broken ridge of his hawk nose, the deep well of his eyes. She thought about the brilliance of his words, the terror of that gun.
Tentatively, the way she did to Meghan while she slept, Timmie lifted a hand and stroked her father's hair. It was cleaned and shiny from the staff's attention, brushed into a thick, noble cap that looked nothing like it had when he'd been tied to his chair at home. She stroked his hair and hummed a few verses of "Only the Rivers Run Free."
If she left him here, he could die.
If she took him home, he would certainly die.
Knowing that he would never need to understand her decision, Timmie kissed him and walked out into the hall that seemed suddenly much too bright for her eyes.
* * *
By eleven that night, the weather had cleared. The moon skirted fitfully among the ragged clouds, and a crisp breeze teased the trees. There was soft music drifting from the car stereo and the subtle scent of Aramis in the air.
"Surely you'll let me see you to the door."
Timmie looked over to where Alex's head gleamed faintly in the passing streetlights and smiled. She'd been preparing for this moment since she'd met Alex at Cafe Renee three hours earlier. Actually, she'd been dreading it. She'd intended to avoid the moment when Alex walked into her house by meeting him at the restaurant. But that had been before Cyrano had decided to have an uncommon hissy fit. Timmie had ended up walking over, and knew better than to think Alex would let her walk home. So she moved to plan B.
"This is Puckett, Alex," she assured him. "Nobody's going to mug me on my sidewalk. Besides, you've been yawning for the last hour. Get home and get some sleep."
Alex slowed his silver-gray Lexus to a perfect stop at the cross street before turning onto Timmie's block. "I'm really embarrassed about that, Timmie. I don't want you to think I haven't had a good time. I really enjoyed myself this evening."
Timmie smiled. "So did I."
Alex was a gentleman. He was dear and polite and sincere. Timmie was sure that it was the fact that she'd been distracted by everything on the planet that had made him seem so...
Nope. A woman who had just had a twenty-year-old fantasy fulfilled did not court words like "boring."
Alex was tired. Timmie was frustrated. She had had the evening scripted for almost a hundred years. Somehow it had never included endless paeans to her father, intensive instruction on everything to do with Alzheimer's, and a blow-by-blow description of the struggle to attain a new PET scanner for the unit.
Next time they would talk about world events, places each had traveled, the effect of any national policy that didn't have a direct impact on health care. Next time they'd laugh like kids over silly jokes and the foibles of lesser humans.
"I haven't had much sleep the last few nights," he apologized for the third time. "I just can't figure out why Barnaby graduated."
"Graduated." The favorite among the vast and varied euphemisms for dying Alex was so fond of using. It still amazed Timmie that Alex couldn't actually say the word "died." His patients graduated or passed or expired or went on. They never just died. Which was what they did. Another one two nights earlier.
She should ask now. She should demand an explanation.
"It's almost enough to make a new customer nervous," she said. "It does seem we've been seeing a lot of your... residents in the ER lately."
She couldn't say clients. She just couldn't.
His expression stayed tight. "It happens like that sometimes. You know that. But it's been a really tough autumn for me."
She was going to ask more when they turned into her drive, and Alex abruptly smiled. "I've always loved this old house," he said, leaning forward a little to catch sight of the old Victorian with its soft red brick washed in porch light. "It's such a dignified old lady. Our house was brand new when I was a kid. No ghosts at all."
Timmie almost said that there weren't any ghosts in this house, either, but she couldn't quite believe it. "Yeah," she said instead, "our house in St. Louis was pretty boring, too."
"You never did tell me," he said, pulling the car to a stop. "How's your mom? Last I heard she was working up at Barnes Hospital."
"She still is. Assistant director of nursing. She's fine."
"And Rose and Margaret?"