Dad by Default

Yvonne glared at the fixtures. “If we lose the electricity, I’m going to scream!”

Thanks to falling branches and, sometimes, entire trees, storms presented an ongoing threat of power failure. Perhaps one of these days the town would spring for a generator at the clinic or, better yet, bury the lines. Today, luckily, the lights stayed on.

“I hope your mom’s okay.” Realizing he ought to explain, Connor added, “I couldn’t avoid overhearing.”

Yvonne didn’t seem to mind. “Everybody knows, anyway. My mom has early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’s cranky and so is Dad. When he decides to vent, I’m the designated target.”

“Who takes care of her?”

“He does except when he’s at work. Unfortunately, the service they use hasn’t been terribly reliable. He claims I ought to help more, but I can’t leave my job to run over there. For Pete’s sake, they live in Mill Valley.”

Connor could only guess at the strain on an already over-burdened single mom. No wonder faint shadows showed beneath those unusual eyes.

Whoever had fathered her baby should have stuck around to help, or at least have provided financial support. That made him wonder what had happened. Was the man simply a jerk, or had she sent him away? The gossips contended she’d hooked up with someone passing through town.

He didn’t usually listen to rumors. Too bad she’d been such a popular subject with the nurses at his old office.

“Aren’t there other relatives in the area?” he asked.

“On my mom’s side, there’s just my cousin Lindsay.” Yvonne tucked a wedge of shaggy hair behind one ear. “As for my dad’s side, there’s only my great-uncle Beau. You’ve met him?”

“Luther Allen had introduced us several years ago. I understand he’s the town patriarch.” An earlier Beauregard Johnson had founded Downhome in the late 1800s and Beau was the longest-serving member of the city council.

“Patriarch? Please don’t call him that. He’s insufferable enough already,” Yvonne grumbled.

“Proud, maybe, but that’s understandable. Given his age and the fact that he’s on the council, I think he deserves our respect.” When her eyes narrowed, Connor realized his comment must sound like criticism. Perhaps it was.

“You’ll get a chance to respect him to your heart’s content this afternoon. He managed to break both wrists two weeks ago, and he’s due for a checkup.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “I’ll ask Winifred to prep him.”

“Why?”

“He considers me a disgrace,” she answered tightly. “You two ought to get along fine.”

Although the crack bothered Connor, he decided to treat it lightly. “Ah, a zinger at last. I was beginning to miss them.” Before she could respond, he changed the subject. “How did he break his wrists?”

“At the grocery store.” Mr. Johnson owned the Tulip Tree Market, the closest thing to a supermarket in the central part of town. “He lost his balance while stocking the shelves.”

“How’s he making do? I hope he doesn’t live alone.” The man must be close to eighty and, as Connor recalled, had never married.

“Dad says he found someone to live in till his arms heal. I hope he’s paying double, because I’m sure she earns it.” After a challenging glare, the nurse marched off.

Despite her prickliness, they’d managed to spend five minutes having an almost civil conversation, Connor mused. And he’d learned some interesting facts. Given the description of Yvonne’s father and great-uncle, he could see that she’d inherited her temper.

The family appeared to be suffering stress from several angles, with Yvonne bearing the brunt. She’d apparently chosen isolation as a defensive strategy.

Connor saw the wisdom in that. He’d taken a similar route with his father.

About an hour later, he came across Beau’s chart outside Examining Room A. The top sheet, marked in Winifred’s bold handwriting, listed satisfactory blood pressure and a slight drop in weight, which wasn’t a good sign in a man as old as Mr. Johnson.

Connor flipped a page. The wrist breaks, both clean, had been X-rayed and the wrists put in casts by an orthopedic specialist at Mill Valley Medical Center. Borderline indications of osteoporosis, for which Beau took medication to build bone density, weren’t expected to prevent healing. Still, full recovery from a wrist fracture could be tricky because of the joint’s multiple bones and ligaments.

The casts wouldn’t come off for another three weeks, when Beau should return to the specialist. Today’s exam was precautionary.

Connor knocked before entering.

On the edge of the examining table loomed Beau Johnson, his rounded back and piercing gaze reminiscent of a hawk. His face seemed thinner than Connor recalled, and the long strand of white hair combed across his pate was slipping toward the front.

Nearby, a young woman in denim overalls and a flowered blouse perched on a chair, her expression wary. She identified herself as Kitty Baker, the care provider.

After exchanging pleasantries, Connor indicated the cast-bound wrists. “We’ll have to skip shaking hands, I’m afraid, Mr. Johnson.”

The old fellow cackled. “Glad you joined the clinic, Doc. Jenni does well enough for a female, but I prefer men.”

Ms. Baker frowned. She probably took plenty of ribbing from the old fellow at home.

After examining Beau and finding no undue pain or swelling, Connor leaned against the counter and regarded the patient assessingly. He was especially concerned about the weight loss for someone with thinning bones. The man might not be taking in enough calcium. “Do the casts make it hard to eat?”

“Nope. That ortho doctor left my fingers free.” Beau wiggled his digits to demonstrate. “Problem is, I got this country bumpkin cooking for me. Ever eat grits, Doc? Pig food.”

Although Connor also disliked the bland cooked-wheat dish, he saw no point in adding to Ms. Baker’s discomfiture. “Some people enjoy them.”

“And she burned the bacon this morning. What kind of fool can’t cook bacon?” The elderly man gave a disdainful sniff.

“You insisted I go fetch your slippers!” protested his aide. “I didn’t think it would burn that fast.”

While Connor suspected Kitty had a tough job, anyone working with the elderly ought to know better than to leave a pan untended on the stove. Still, he suspected good home aides were as difficult to find in Downhome as in Mill Valley.

“Go on, blame me!” Beau flared. “I suppose it’s my fault I’m old and ugly.”

“You got the ugly part right!”

Connor mulled how best to intervene. The woman’s comment was inappropriate, yet he understood how the client’s insults had alienated her.

Part of the trouble might be due to the injuries. Despite the normal exam results, Connor was also concerned about hidden trauma from the fall. Even when seniors recovered physically, they sometimes became fearful or depressed, which they expressed as anger.

“Having an aide around can be awkward,” he ventured. “However…”

“I wouldn’t need a stranger in the house if my kin treated me right!” A quaver rippled through Beau’s voice.

“You don’t get along with your relatives?” He wanted to learn Mr. Johnson’s perspective.

“There’s just my nephew and his family, and I hardly ever see them. They ain’t offered to do a darn thing for me!” Connor suspected the elderly man knew how to speak grammatically, but the colorful verbal style obviously suited him.

“You may have to be the one to reach out.” Still, it might not make much difference, considering Beau’s well-established antagonism toward Yvonne. And, of course, the pressing problems imposed by her mother’s illness.

The man nodded. “Mebbe you’re right.” Gaining steam, he added, “In fact, I’ll do precisely that. I’m going to demand they do the right thing and take care of me. I’m firing Miss Useless here as of five o’clock today.”

Kitty gave a start. “What?”