The thought made Luca nauseous. “You’re right. Find the farmhouse in Tuscany and we’ll all move in with you.”
“You’re joking, but when I make the trip, I might just stay.”
Luca narrowed his eyes. “There are wineries right here. Temecula is thirty miles.”
“And three times as expensive.”
Gio had been threatening to go into the wine business since he was old enough to drink the stuff, which at their table was ten, despite what the American laws said. Watered down, of course. Eventually he educated himself and became a certified sommelier. He was working on his advanced certificate when the world shut down. The course he wanted to continue was in Italy, and that was where he was going to immerse himself. He’d put the trip off, but the time was coming and Luca knew his brother was ready to fly away.
“I will support whatever you decide, but truly hope you follow your dreams here. Keep a foot in Italy if you must. But keep your legs here.”
Gio grinned. “I love you, too, brother.”
Once again, they looked around the top-floor apartment and sighed.
“What the hell was Mama thinking?”
Brooke greeted her father at the door of the nursing home with a smile.
He’d lost thirty pounds and aged twenty years.
Despite the wheelchair, he was smiling.
“You ready to blow this scene?” she asked him with a chuckle.
“L-let’s get the h-hell outta here.” His stutter was a constant since the stroke and had worsened with this illness. When he wasn’t stuttering, he was pausing, searching for the words he wanted to use.
The nurse had a clipboard with papers for Brooke to sign. “Since you’re transporting him and not an ambulance, we need you to sign these waivers.”
“No problem.”
Ten minutes later, with the paperwork signed and her father tucked into the passenger seat of the Subaru she’d cursed since she’d found the thing . . . and the wheelchair shoved in the trunk, they were off.
“I’m hungry,” her father said before they’d pulled out onto the main road.
“I’m not surprised.”
“T-the food was . . . awful. And cold.”
“It’s a nursing home.” As if that was an excuse. “What are you craving?”
“A burrito.”
Brooke winced. She knew he was wearing a diaper. But it was a two-hour drive if they didn’t hit traffic to San Diego. And a bathroom emergency was the only real concern she had. “You sure?”
Her dad grinned. “I’ll be f-fine.”
Without options, she pulled into the fast-food restaurant of his choosing, left her dad in the car with the windows down, and ran in to get him what he wanted. Once they were on the road, and her dad was moaning in pleasure at the taste of the food, her concern about how that food was going to process didn’t seem to matter. “That good, huh?”
“The best.”
Her father’s culinary bar was pretty low. “If you say so.”
“Is the food good where I’m g-going?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m told.” She pulled onto the freeway at a snail’s pace. The traffic of the Inland Empire would not be missed once the condo sold and she never had to return ever again.
“But you haven’t had it.”
“No. There are a ton of rules about outside visitors. And since I have been in and out of a hospital with you, and then the nursing home, they didn’t want me roaming around the place. They let me bring your personal belongings into the apartment and furnish it. That’s it.”
“Oh.”
Brooke watched him out of the corner of her eye as he finished his food in thought.
She knew he was wrestling with the entire concept of moving into an assisted living home. He was not ready to let go of his independence even if it was being taken from him by Father Time.
“They have to keep you isolated for a few days. It’s the rules, Dad. We’ve talked about this.” Traffic eased up a little and she was able to hit the gas.
He sighed, but didn’t comment.
“It won’t be forever.”
“You’re selling the condo.” It wasn’t a question. This, too, they’d gone over, many times.
“It’s the only way I can make all this work.” Her voice rose and her patience was already running thin, and they’d barely been on the road for thirty minutes.
“I know you’re doing all . . . everything. This is hard for me.”
Brooke took a deep breath, reached over, and grasped her father’s hand. “I know it is, Dad. None of this has been easy on you. I can’t imagine. When you were in the ICU and on the ventilator, I didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“I was in the ICU?”
He’d asked the question before. “For over a week.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t remember a lot of th-things.” He looked out the window. “Maybe it will come back.”
And maybe it won’t.
“I’ll be twenty minutes away. Once you’re clear for visitors, we can watch the games together.” She hated all things sports but watched them with him because he enjoyed them.
“I won’t use that w-wheelchair for long,” he insisted.
“I hope not.”
He patted the door of the car. “You’ll keep the car.”
She shook her head. “We can’t afford it.”
“Yes, we can. I bought it.”
Brooke swallowed. “You didn’t put any money down on it, Dad. The payment is over five hundred a month plus insurance. You need that money from your social security for where you’re living.” And then a whole lot more from her pocket to make it work. “As soon as the condo sells, I’m taking this back to the dealership . . .”
“No.”
“Dad?”
“What if I can drive again?”
She gripped the wheel and kept the cussing from exiting her lips. “Dad,” she started calmly. “Even if you could drive, the hospital lost your wallet with your driver’s license in it. The DMV will never reissue another license. We both know that.”
God, she hated this argument.
She’d hated the car on sight, was disappointed that he’d taken brilliant care of it and yet the condo had fallen into disrepair. The fact that he had an ounce of energy to argue with her about it was insulting. Yet deep down she knew it was his last ounce of independence slipping away.
“I’ll keep it for a little longer. But, Dad . . . we can’t afford it. You have to trust me on this.”
With his silence, she glanced over to see him staring out the window, his eyes glossed over with unshed tears. “This is hard, Brooke. I’m in a f-fucking diaper. I can’t remember my prayers . . .” He started tapping his fingertips.
“I’m sure you’ve said enough Hail Marys to make God happy,” she assured him.
“I know you’re doing what you have to.”
At least he said that. “I am.”
When they pulled into the parking lot of his new home, Brooke wrangled the wheelchair out of the trunk.
One of the intake administrators was there, along with a front desk staff member who welcomed her father.