Chapter 15

15

B rock hated hospitals .

Something about the antiseptic stench, the poker-faced medical staff, and the worried expressions of people in the waiting room got to him every time. Not that he’d been in them often, thankfully, but playing footy at high school to fit in with the cool kids meant he’d suffered through a broken collarbone, ruptured ankle ligaments, and a fractured wrist.

His stride slowed as he entered the orthopaedic ward of the western suburbs’ newest public hospital, and it had nothing to do with the warring smells of old people and disinfectant, and everything to do with the upcoming confrontation.

It had been five months since he’d seen his dad. A birthday lunch at the closest pub to their house, consisting of stilted conversation over chicken parma’s and pots of beer. He had to admit his parents had been better than usual, not sniping at each other every few minutes, but he always felt the same in their company, awkward and on tenterhooks, and he couldn’t escape fast enough.

If his father wore his grumpiness like a badge of honour on a good day, Brock couldn’t wait to see how George was handling being confined to a bed.

Scanning the numbers above the rooms, he paused outside number thirteen. Not a good omen; definitely unlucky for him.

Despising the thumping of his heart, he knocked and pushed open the half-shut door.

‘About time you brought me my car magazines,’ George barked as Brock stepped around the curtain and glared at his father. No prizes for guessing George had been expecting his wife, who he bullied constantly and yelled orders at like a damn sergeant.

‘Brock, what are you doing here?’ George’s mouth sagged in shock as he struggled into a sitting position.

‘I came to see how you’re doing.’ Brock moved closer to the bed and handed his father a bag of chocolate-covered liquorice, his favourite. ‘Heard you took a tumble.’

‘That decrepit, old bladder.’ George took the bag, opened it, and his eyes lit up. ‘Don’t tell your mother you brought me these. She has me on a strict diet because I won’t be mobile for a while.’

‘She has your best interests at heart,’ Brock said, leaping to his mum’s defence as he always did. ‘Don’t eat those all at once.’

‘I’d tell you to mind your business but you brought me these.’ George rattled the bag, a cheeky glint in his eyes. ‘So I’ll say thanks instead.’

Brock struggled to hide his surprise. His father had few ways of communicating: snapping instructions or talking over anyone who didn’t view the world as he did. Which meant for most of Brock’s childhood, raised voices were the norm, followed by sullen silences and begrudging apologies.

George rarely expressed gratitude so the fact he’d thanked him for the liquorice…maybe he’d sustained a head injury along with a broken hip after that fall.

‘How are you feeling, Dad?’

‘Sore. Stupid.’ George winced. ‘I’m an idiot for thinking I can still do the stuff I used to do years ago.’

‘Dad, you’re forty-seven, not eighty.’

‘Still an idiot,’ George muttered, with a shake of his head. ‘Don’t know how your mother puts up with me.’

It was the first time Brock had heard his father acknowledge what a pain in the ass he could be, and hot on the heels of his thanks, it left him baffled.

‘I took a look at the accounts before coming here,’ Brock said, keen to focus on business and not this puzzling version of his father he didn’t recognise. ‘Everything looks in order but I’ll keep an eye on things and pop into the yard twice a week while you’re incapacitated.’

‘Good man.’

An odd expression crossed George’s face. If Brock didn’t know any better, he would’ve labelled it vulnerability.

‘I hate to ask another favour, son, when you’re already helping me out and I know how busy you are, but there’s something else where your input would be invaluable.’

Brock stiffened. Of course George would take advantage of the situation. He saw Brock’s helping out at the yard as weakness and wanted to put the screws to him.

‘What is it?’

George didn’t flinch at his short, sharp response. ‘The annual awards for car salesmen are coming up next week.’ He grimaced and pointed to his hip. ‘I won’t be mobile by then and your mother doesn’t want to go without me, so I was hoping you could attend instead, as a representative for our yard?’

Our yard? Brock wanted nothing to do with that dive, but the great George Olsen never asked anyone for favours, least of all a son he rarely had time for, so this must’ve cost him. A lot. But the last thing Brock felt like doing was hanging out with a bunch of used-car salesmen for an evening. He’d rather stick a fork in his eye.

‘It’s not really my thing, Dad—’

‘Please, Son. This is important to me.’

If asking a favour wasn’t in George’s DNA, pleading was unheard of. Brock stared at the man who’d begrudged his existence for as long as he could remember, the man who’d whinged about having an extra mouth to feed, the man who’d doled out a few dollars in pocket money as if he couldn’t stand to part with it rather than acknowledge the endless hours Brock helped in the yard when kids his age had been skiving off into the city or going to the movies.

George looked at least a decade older than forty-seven with his receding hairline, greying hair, and pouches under his eyes. He looked like a man who’d had a hard life and made life harder for those around him.

But whatever his father had done in the past, Brock couldn’t turn his back on him now. He already harboured enough guilt for being the reason his mum had stuck with this man during her twenties, the years she should’ve been out partying; he wouldn’t add to her burden. Because nothing surer than George would pester his mother to attend solo if Brock turned him down.

‘Okay, Dad, I’ll do it.’

George’s relieved smile added to the lines around his mouth. ‘There’s something else.’

As if attending an event filled with his father’s cronies wasn’t bad enough. ‘What is it?’

George’s sheepish expression didn’t bode well. ‘I’m on the organising committee. In fact, I’ve planned the whole thing this year, so there’s a few finishing touches that need to be done.’

He held up his hand and started counting tasks on his fingers. ‘The caterers need to be contacted to ensure the menu is going out as planned. The florists doing the centrepieces need to be paid. The venue will need to be double-checked the morning of the function to ensure the decorators followed specifications…’ George trailed off, his bashfulness almost as shocking as his gratitude earlier. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, Son, but do you think you can do this for me?’

Brock’s first instinct was to refuse. Attending would be bad enough, but finalising details of this shindig? A nightmare. Besides, since when did he have party-planning skills?

Party planning…

Something Jayda had said niggled… about her being a glorified party planner for her parents’ business… If she’d done this kind of thing before, she’d be the perfect person to help.

All he had to do was grovel.

‘Fine, I’ll do it,’ he said, with reluctance.

George beamed, ignoring his begrudging response. ‘And, Son?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You coming to visit means a lot.’

George held out his hand, his admission the closest thing to affection Brock had ever received from his father, and damned if his chest didn’t ache with unrequited emotion when he shook his dad’s hand.