Chapter 13
Sam dropped off Red, drove to the first stop sign, and pulled out his phone, even though it was pushing midnight.
“Woodcrest Assisted Living and Memory Care.”
“This is Sam Owens. I’m calling to see where things stand with my father. George Owens.”
“George Owens?”
Sam forced himself to be patient. If he wanted to get information, he needed to stay in the nursing staff’s good graces. “That’s right,” he said in a level voice.
“Let me see….”
Seconds ticked by with maddening slowness.
“Are you on record as someone we can talk to?”
“I should be.” I’m the only one stupid enough to care. “He was admitted last week for evaluation. Was acting a little strange.”
“And this is the first you’re checking on him?”
Until tonight, there was no pressure to hide the house.
“I’ve been tied up at work. Figured if there was news, you’d get ahold of me.”
“What was your name again?”
“First name Sam. Sierra Alpha Mike. Last name Owens.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sierra, but I don’t see your name here on the chart.”
Jesu— He bit his tongue. “It’s Owens, same as him. I should be on there. I’m the one who brought him in in the first place.” Should have just let him blow himself up like he wanted.
“I’m sorry, Owens.” There was another pause. “I don’t see that on here, either.”
Sam gritted his teeth. “Is the night manager there?”
“She is, but she’s with a resident and I’m not sure how long she’ll be. Can I have the director call you tomorrow?”
“Could you? Here’s my number.” He punched end and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He could call the doctor, but the office wouldn’t be open until Monday.
* * * *
Sam was seated in his office late Sunday morning when his phone rang. It was the director from Woodcrest. Sam grabbed it and leaped to his feet.
Following the preliminaries, she said, “We’re still waiting to hear from his doctor. If Mr. Owens is deemed unable to take care of himself, the doctor has the power to declare a 302, meaning he requires professional care. At that point, your father can fill out the forms to apply for formal admission with Medicare paying for the first—”
“My father can’t even fill out a freaking grocery list.” He should know. He’d given him a pre-printed pad months ago. All Dad had to do was check off what he needed, milk, bread, whatever, and Sam would pick it up and bring it on his weekly visits to check on him. Yet he never filled it out once.
There was a pause. “Obviously, I was speaking rhetorically,” she said coolly. “The patient doesn’t have to fill out the forms himself. He can do it with the assistance of you or another authorized signatory.”
“But what you’re saying is that we’re not anywhere near there yet.”
“Correct.”
“How long does it usually take to get a definitive answer?”
“It’s different in every case.”
“Can you at least give me an estimate so I know what we’re dealing with here?”
“It can take up to several weeks.”
“Several weeks?”
“As I said. Every case is different.”
Simultaneously he sucked in a breath and drew back his fist. The faint odor of fresh paint stopped his fist as it made contact with the wall. The drywall was less than a year old. He didn’t want to have to explain a hole in it.
Bursting with frustration, all he could do was pace his small office, scrub a hand over his hair, and try to reconcile himself to waiting.
* * * *
First thing Monday morning, Sam rifled his desk drawer for the welcoming folder Woodcrest had given him the day of Dad’s admission until he found the number of the doctor.
“I’m sorry. Dr. Mowbray is out until Friday.”
“Who’s taking care of his case load?”
“Dr. Stephan is on-call for emergencies. Do you have an emergency?”
If Red found out that house was his, he was dead. Did that count?
“Can you check my father’s record and see if they’ve come up with a diagnosis for him yet?”
“I’m sorry, only the doctor is authorized to give out that information. Can I leave a message for Dr. Mowbray to call you when he gets back?”
“Yes. When will that be? Will he just see the message Friday, or will he actually call me back then?” His voice control was impressive, if he said so himself. Maybe he still had it, after all. Or maybe it was the pressure. He’d always worked best under pressure—until he didn’t.
“I can’t answer that. All I can do is leave him the message and you’ll have to wait.”
Sam hung up and looked unseeing out his office window. He was only twenty-nine. He’d thought he had time before he had to start thinking about the future. Time to get up each morning in a free country and be grateful for no longer being under Psychodad’s thumb. For old friends and the opportunity to work hard at a meaningful job. To take his sweet time getting to know a woman before the realities of—he couldn’t even say the word to himself. What came beyond that was too scary to think about, because if he were anything like his father, he would wind up hurting the very people he cared most about.
But as scary as the thought of committing to Red was, the thought of losing her was scarier.
And yet, he couldn’t let her get hold of that saltbox.
If ever there was a case of being up the creek without the proverbial paddle, this was it. What was he supposed to do?
If he wanted to keep Red, he had to take away her fondest dream.