Read Online Occasion of Revenge by Marcia Talley - Free Book Online

be glad there was a Darlene in the picture.
    Corporal Griffin sighed deeply, then laid his hat and portfolio on a chair. “Look, let’s all sit down, OK? I got some questions and I’m sure you got some questions. Better now than later, huh?”
    Griffin’s chair creaked under his weight. His beefy body spilled over the seat on both sides, the nightmare seat mate in transatlantic flight hell. “As I said,” he continued. “Your father was driving west in the westbound span when he ran into the back of a tractor trailer. A passing motorist called nine-one-one. I arrived about the same time the ambulance did.”
    Paul asked, “Was anybody else hurt?”
    Officer Griffin shook his head. “Nope. The truck driver wasn’t in his vehicle.”
    “Do you mean the truck was stopped on the bridge?” I was incredulous.
    “Yes.”
    “Then how can it be Daddy’s fault he ran into it?”
    “Look, ma’am, that truck was lit up with blinking lights like Rocker Fellah Center. If your dad’a been sober, it never would’a happened.”
    “But …”
    Paul silenced me by squeezing my hand, hard. “Does he need a lawyer?”
    The officer shrugged. “If it was me, I’d get one.”
    “When can we see him?” I asked.
    Griffin rose from his chair, tugged on the waistband of his uniform, and gathered up his belongings. “It’s up to the doctor in charge, but someone should be out to talk to you soon.” He reached into a breast pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Ruth. “I’ll be in touch.”
    “Thanks,” Ruth said, although under the circumstances, I couldn’t imagine what she was thanking the guy for.
    After Corporal Griffin left I took the card from Ruth, read it, then handed it back to her. “Why you?” I asked, feeling unaccountably miffed.
    She shrugged. “They called the house asking for Mom.” Her voice broke. Huge tears slid down her cheeks.
    “Oh, Ruth! I’m sorry!” I felt my cheeks grow wet. “Stop it! Now you’re making me cry!” I hugged Ruth and began to blubber. My teardrops left gray splotches all over her white silk blouse.
    “Girls, girls.” Paul put his arms around both of us. “I find myself doing this a lot lately,” he muttered into my hair. After a few seconds, he fumbled in his pants pocket and withdrew a couple of paper towels, an emergency supply that he must have yanked out of the dispenser in the men’s room. “Here. You may need this.”
    I was blowing my nose noisily into the stiff brown paper when a doctor appeared. “Mrs. Ives?”
    My head snapped around. “Yes?”
    “I’m Dr. Wainwright.” I shook the hand he extended. It was dry and very cold. “Your father’s taken a good wallop to the head. It took twelve stitches to close the wound. He’s got a concussion. I don’t think it’s particularly serious, but because of his age and the fact that it’s a head injury, we’re going to keep him a couple of days. Run a few tests.”
    “What kind of tests?”
    “In addition to a head scan, we’ll do a chest X ray and an electrocardiogram. Also a CBC, glucose, liver function, ABG—”
    “Complete blood count I know, but what’s an ABG?”
    “Arterial blood gas.”
    “For a head injury?”
    “Not exactly. The head injury may be just one of your father’s problems, Mrs. Ives. I would be irresponsible if I released him from the hospital prematurely, before we’ve had a chance to determine the full extent of his injuries, and …” He looked at each of us in turn as if trying to predict our reactions to what he was about to say. “… And determine how much his recovery may be hampered by an alcohol dependency.”
    When none of us said anything, Dr. Wainwright continued. “I can see by the expression on your faces that I’m not telling you anything you don’t already suspect.” He waved his arm toward a bank of chairs and for the second time that morning, we sat down in them. “Look, the problem is this. If your father is an alcoholic, in