Paint Me Claimed - Book 2

6 | Cuffed by cufflinks

Zemira

The sight of our family doctor's car in the driveway sent a shiver down my spine. Worst-case scenarios ran across my mind, firing up my feet. I tossed my purse on the round, marble-top table that decorated the entrance and rushed into my father's bedroom.

"What happened?" Heaving for air, I asked. "Is everything alright?"

Dr. Walsh looked up at me as he removed the blood pressure cuff from Dad's arm. A soft screech from tearing the cuff off dragged my attention back.

My father waved his hand casually, inviting me to join him on the bed.

"Nothing happened," he said.

Dr. Walsh's eyebrows bridged as he jotted down the prescription. He always smiled if things were fine.

"Doc, is Dad alright?"

"Yes," my father answered. "It's just a routine checkup."

"No, it's not." Walsh countered, leaning closer to me. "Your father is lying."

I stood on the opposite side of a table near Dad's bed, nesting every piece of equipment which the doctor carried during his visit.

I never liked them, especially the array of syringes and needles he carried in his brown briefcase. As a child, those assortments scared me. I used to hide under my bed during high fever, trying to avoid being injected.

"Your father complained of dizziness. So, I got him checked." Walsh straightened on the chair, running a hand through his eyebrows and wiping it down his sunken cheeks. "His pressure shot up and let me tell you, Zemmy, it's not the first time it has happened."

"Dad." My tone shot up. "Why didn't you tell me this has happened before?"

My father palmed his face, sighing behind his hand-held veil. His well-guarded secret wasn't supposed to come out but it did.

"Dad, I'm asking you something."

He had no answer to my question. What he had was a smile. A wide grin, admitting his guilt.

"Walsh is making up stuff." Was his retort. "He likes stirring trouble."

"Shut up, Grant," the doctor countered. "Zemira needs to know."

"Know what, Uncle?" I moved from Dad's side to join Walsh. "Tell me."

Being able to tower over his stout build, I peered at the doctor with a gaze so intense, I could feel it heating the back of my neck.

Uncle Walsh had known me since my childhood. Even before being our family doctor, he was my folks' friend. Needless to say, my dad never took his advice very seriously.

Walsh moved away from the table, holding my elbow and dragging me with him.

We ignored Dad's rant, asking us to stop plotting against him and his incessant vows to break his friendship with the doctor.

When nothing worked and we walked outside, he ceased his whining.

"It's not good, Zem. And the reports confirm the same."

Walsh uncurled his frown; two fingers running over the sides of his mouth and down his throat. If it wasn't for my knowledge about his strength in delivering bad news, I would have assumed he would be crushed under the weight of his own words.

"What does the report say?"

"Your father's health is deteriorating. BP is very high, 170 over 120. And so is cholesterol. I'll increase the dosage but what Grant needs now is rest. Complete rest."