Neither he nor Tulane were established Handel clients. Either could be new, she supposed, and she just hadn’t yet gotten the paperwork. Wait . . . Dr. Adams. She’d seen him in the ER last spring when she’d taken a tumble in the parking garage downstairs. “Of course, Dr. Adams. What can I do for you?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just spit it out. I do have a duly signed HIPAA release authorizing me to discuss this matter with you.”
A HIPAA release? That confused her. “What matter is that, Dr. Adams?”
“Your father was brought in on a 911 call,” Dr. Adams said. “He’s had a stroke.”
Her heart beat hard and fast. Her father? “Is he . . .?”
“He’s alive and stable,” Dr. Adams said quickly. “There’s some paralysis on the right side of his body and his speech has been impeded, but he is writing a little now with his left hand, so we are able to communicate with him.”
“What’s he written?” Did he want her there, or not want her there? Considering he’d kept his emotional distance her whole life, she couldn’t imagine he would want her to even know about this. To actually let her see him vulnerable? He’d hate that.
Dr. Adams ignored her question and asked one of his own. “Could you tell me, please? Who is Helena?”
Hearing her name spoken aloud stunned Gabby. Never, not once in all her life, had her father ever uttered the name in Gabby’s presence. “Helena is . . . was my mother.”
“Was? So, she’s deceased then?”
“Yes, twenty-eight years ago. She died in childbirth when I was born.” Long familiar pangs of guilt ripped through Gabby and she shifted on her seat.
“I see. May I ask if your father speaks of her often?”
“To my knowledge, he never speaks of her.” Gabby stiffened. According to Janelle, the aunt Gabby had met once in her life at age twelve, her father didn’t blame Gabby for her mother’s death. He just couldn’t stand to look at her because of it. Some losses run too deep to forget. “What is it you need from me, Dr. Adams?”
“Your father wrote down your name and phone number.”
Which told her nothing. She worried her lower lip, ignored Fitch’s slanted curious looks. He was clearly listening and pretending not to hear. She dropped her voice. “Why? What does he want from me? Should I come to the hospital, or is he just letting me know?”
“Excuse me?”
No way could she say that again. The words would clog her throat and she’d choke. She opted for silence instead.
“You’re his daughter, Miss Blake.”
“I’m acutely aware of that, Doctor.” She swallowed hard, tempered her tone. “Will he recover?”
“We believe he will. The first twenty-four hours were most dangerous, but he made it through them without further incident.”
“The first twenty-four hours?” Surprise streaked up her spine. “When did this incident happen?”
“Three days ago,” Dr. Adams said. “He was unconscious on the sidewalk—on Canal Street near the river. A passerby spotted him and phoned 911. Until today, we didn’t know who to call. He’s been writing, but until this evening, we couldn’t decipher anything beyond the name, Helena. Confusion is common in these cases.”
Apparently, Gabby wasn’t an ICE contact in his phone or wallet, or they had been stolen. “He arrived without any identification, then?”
“That’s correct.”
Stolen. “And his left side is impacted as well as his right?”
“Not from our testing, no. Just the right side.”
“Dr. Adams, my father is left-handed,” she said, cupping her forehead in her hand, her elbow atop her desk. “Why is his writing undecipherable?”
“After the trauma of a stroke, it can take time for the, er, confusion to dissipate. He’s actually doing well on that front,” the doctor assured her. “Has he had any illnesses or stroke symptoms in recent months? Slurred speech, the inability to form and speak complete sentences, or an inability to smile?”
Smile? Her father? Not likely. At least, not around her. “I don’t know.”
“Um, Miss Blake,” Dr. Adams hesitated, then went on. “I don’t want to pry, but have you been estranged? You and your father, I mean.”
She slid Fitch a covert glance, but his chair stood empty. Relieved at his stepping away from his desk and giving her a little privacy, she blew out a long breath. “We’re blood strangers, Dr. Adams,” she said. “We have been since my birth.” Forcing the pain of that fact out of her voice and infusing it with a strength she didn’t feel took effort. “I’ll come to the hospital if you like, but it would be prudent to first be sure he wants me there . . . for both our sakes. “
“I understand.” The doctor softened his voice. “May I ask how long it’s been since you’ve seen him?”
Her face went hot. “Christmas.” An hour in a room together not talking, not looking at each other, was about all either of them could take. A knife couldn’t cut through the tension. It’d be a challenge for a machete.
“Oh, you live away.” Dr. Adam’s voice lightened. “I’m sorry, Miss Blake. I thought you lived in New Orleans. The area code—”
“I do live in New Orleans,” she admitted. “You weren’t mistaken.”
“But it’s weeks until Christ . . . Oh, you meant last yea—“ He stopped himself. “My apologies, Miss Blake.” A long pause stretched into silence. Finally, he said, “I’ve sent a nurse to specifically ask your father if he wants to see you. She’ll return momentarily.” He cleared his throat. “Um, actually, with this virus, we wouldn’t consider permitting you entry into the facility—it’s patients only—but with no identification, we do need a positive ID. Ah, she’s back now, and she’s nodding.” The doctor listened, then repeated. “She asked, and he wrote, ‘Now’.”
Now. That stunned Gabby. “Very well.”
Dr. Adams hesitated. “You’ll come to the hospital, then?”
“Of course.” She glanced at the window. Huge raindrops splattered against the glass and ran in rivulets down the panes like rivers of tears. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you, Miss Blake. Masks are required, and I personally recommend gloves as well.”
“Fine.” Gabby hung up the phone. Her stomach fluttered. She demanded it stop and issued herself a stern warning: Don’t make anything out of this. He isn’t going to suddenly become the dad you always wanted when he’s never been the father you needed. People aren’t built that way.
Fitch returned to his desk with a steaming cup of coffee. “Hey, everything okay, Blake? Sounded like bad news.”
“Everything’s fine.” She nodded in Fitch’s general direction and walked toward the door, grabbing her coat and umbrella from the hook on the way. “Night.”
Now. Adian Blake wanted to see her now. Why? Never in her life had he wanted to see her.
But never in his life had he looked into the face of death.