A Thousand Miles

Part 2

JoLynn Travis was the picture of a spoiled rich girl if ever he'd seen one. And he'd seen plenty. Southern belle debutantes raised in the lap of luxury, given every little thing they wanted until they were spoiled beyond the point of saving. Shane passed through the sliding doors into the interior of the long-term care facility, hardly noticing his surroundings, only vaguely aware that he'd somehow made it to the right address. Yeah, he'd have pegged Miss JoLynn Travis from the start even if he didn't already know what kind of family she came from.

Clearly, she had no intention of sharing the show or the spotlight. Probably never had to share anything before now. She didn't like the idea of a co-host. She didn't like the fact that he was from a different state. She didn't like that someone else made the decision to hire him. She probably couldn't disapprove of him more.

She did like him, however. At least until she'd figured out what was going on and who he was. The look on her pretty face when she first saw him betrayed her. But the spark in those big green eyes changed from interest to outrage in less than five seconds. He'd be lucky if she said two words to him tomorrow, and that was a shame. Whatever kind of pampered brat she was, it'd probably be a whole lot of fun to get to know her. And it'd probably be a good idea to get to Miss JoLynn's office early. She seemed like the kind of woman who would leave ten minutes ahead of schedule—without him—just to make some crazy point.

Besides, he loved the Alamo. It was a beautiful shrine honoring men who had been willing to stand their ground and fight a losing battle for a cause they believed in. If what Truman told him about the show was true, it seemed highly appropriate for his first day of work.

But that was a bridge to be crossed tomorrow.

Now, his footsteps echoed off the polished concrete floor of the nursing home vestibule as he crossed today's bridge. No, not a nursing home. A long-term health care facility. He'd need to remember not to refer to it as a nursing home in his dad's presence. The idea of living out the remainder of his years here might send him into another apoplectic episode.

A stroke. Shane paused in the center of the sparsely furnished lobby and glanced around. A white limestone fireplace dominated an alcove on his left, above which hung a beautiful, impressionistic oil painting of hills and valleys covered in bluebonnets, and before which sat an array of comfortably worn, large-scale leather chairs. Shane tried with everything in him to appreciate the rustic, Texas Hill Country appeal, rather than dwell again on the image of his father collapsed on a cold, hard bathroom floor two weeks ago. But the image lingered, haunting him, overpowering every other thought.

A stroke. No, a catastrophic series of strokes from which he would probably never fully recover. His father was lucid; the doctors all assured him; lucid and aware, just unable to communicate beyond the otherworldly moans that began that afternoon in St. Louis.

The folks behind the welcome desk all stopped their work and stared expectantly at him. He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. They might not think he was lucid if he just stood here for very much longer. A cute, young blonde gave him a brilliant smile. He forced one in return and crossed the distance to the desk where she sat.

"Hi there. What can we do for you?"

"My father, Joe Quinlan, was supposed to be transferred here today."

The girl tapped away on her keyboard for a second or two, scrolled with her mouse, then looked up and flashed him that smile again. "He just got here a few minutes ago. He's in room one twenty-seven. Straight down the corridor and to your right."

"Thanks."

The polished concrete floor of the lobby gave way to a more practical, hospital style vinyl as he entered the corridor. The rustic décor and artwork morphed into IV stands and wheel chairs parked outside rooms, some with doors open and several with doors closed. Up ahead, an orderly pushed a wheelchair occupied by a young woman who slouched to the side and stared vacantly up at the ceiling.

Shane swallowed past the ache rising in the back of his throat. If another stroke didn't finally claim his dad's life, living in this place would. Freedom had always been Joe Quinlan's highest ideal, or so he'd always said. Freedom to go where the road and his ancient Winnebago took them. Freedom from the constraints that tethered most everyone else to just one spot for life. But Shane knew the truth.

He shook his head, as if doing so could dislodge the memories.

Just past a nurses station, he found it. Room 127. The place to which his dad was finally tethered by a body that seemed to serve as the worst kind of prison. The door was open.

"There you go, Mr. Quinlan." A woman's accented voice floated out from behind the privacy curtain drawn around the bed. "You're all tucked in."

The curtain opened and the woman, a nurse, turned and jumped when she noticed Shane standing there. "Oh!" She was short and sturdy, fiftyish, with graying dark hair pulled back into a tight, short ponytail.

"Sorry." Shane offered. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"Are you his son?"

He nodded. "Shane Quinlan." He extended his hand and she shook it.

"Rosa Gonzales." She said. "I've been expecting you. Don't worry about a thing. We'll take good care of him. Do you have brothers and sisters coming?"

Shane shook his head. "No, ma'am. I'm all he has."

I'm all he has.

The phrase struck him like a slap and intensified the ache in his throat. Not only because it was profoundly true, but because the opposite was true as well. Shane had no one but his dad. And now it looked like his dad would spend the rest of his life here.

"I'll leave you to help him get settled." Rosa's words barely registered as Shane approached the bed. He pulled a chair close and sat down

"Hey, Dad."

His father's eyes slid in Shane's direction, then he turned his head slightly.

"Well, you always said if you ever settled down you wanted it to be in Texas. So that's where I brought you."

"MO....MO..." his dad drew the syllable out until he was able to connect it with the rest of a word. "NEY."

Money.

If any doubt remained as to his father's lucidity, it disappeared in that instant. He knew exactly where he was and what it was likely to cost to keep him there. "We have the settlement money."

An incoherent moan answered him as a sudden stream of tears issued from his dad's eyes.

That's your money. Shane could practically read his mind. It's supposed to take care of you.

"It's been stashed away for twenty years. You'll be living off nothing but the interest for a good while. And I got a job. In Austin."

His dad jerked his head in the other direction. Shane took a tissue from a box on the night stand and wiped his father's eyes and nose.

"Remember those emails I got from Truman Overton? He's the one that produces that local travel show out of Austin, remember? He read my Regions of Texas series. I called him and asked if he was still interested in talking to me about writing for his program. We had lunch yesterday, and by the time we finished he wanted to try me out as a co-host."

It wasn't clear if his dad wouldn't look at him or couldn't. But the tears continued to stream down his cheeks.

"I found a nice park between Austin and here. I'll hook up there and live in the RV until we see what's gonna happen."

Shane took his dad's hand when it twitched on the bed beside him. His dad swung his head back in his direction.

"It's going to be OK."

Another tear slid down his father's cheek. Maybe it would be OK, or maybe it wouldn't. But one thing was certain; nothing about their lives would ever be the same again.