When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(10)

“I get it!” she cut him off.

“Either way, you might ask yourself if your dad should return to living on his own. Once the antibiotics are no longer needed and home health can be requested and you’re willing to change diapers and give baths, he can be discharged home.”

Brooke squeezed her eyes closed.

“And if that isn’t an option?” Carmen asked.

“Assisted living, once his wound heals. If he or you have the funds for that. Does he own his home?”

“No,” Brooke said. “He has a little money and social security.”

Kyle started to straighten the papers in his lap. “Medicare pays for a minimal number of days in a nursing home if a doctor warrants a need. You can appeal for more if the doctor wants to discharge before the allotted time, of course, and should . . . but you should know that it is likely that you’ll be denied.”

“What does that mean?” Brooke’s head was spinning. All the information Kyle was pushing in was too much.

“When Medicare stops paying the bill, your father will be responsible.”

“And how much is that?”

“Our rate is $430 a day.”

“What the—” Carmen came halfway out of her chair.

Kyle lifted a hand. “We’re not there yet, but I want you to understand what you’re facing. Best case, your father regains all his faculties, is able to ambulate, use the bathroom, bathe, and not do anything destructive in the coming days and he can go home with the occasional home health nurse helping with his wound care until it heals.”

Yeah . . . Brooke thought of the shell of a man in the bed upstairs right now and couldn’t imagine that happening. Even if it did . . . the state of his home, his decision-making . . .

“More likely, your father will need more time. His activities of daily living need assistance. Diapers, bathing, dressing . . . These things can be taken care of in assisted living, but they won’t accept him until the wound from surgery is completely healed. So, you’re looking at a decent-size bill from us. We’ll plead with the doctors to extend as long as we can, but still, I would expect a minimum bill of four weeks, expecting Medicare to stop paying after a month.”

Brooke did some mental math.

“If your father owned a home, you could sell it to take care of these expenses.”

Brooke looked at Carmen with a sigh. “My dad was married four times. It’s kinda hard to have much of anything when you’re constantly dividing your assets.”

Kyle chuckled. “There are a lot of assisted living facilities in the area.”

She closed her eyes again.

“However.”

“What else?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

“I suggest you move your dad closer to you. If you choose the assisted living route, you’ll still likely take him to his doctor’s appointments, get him his essentials, visit. Yes, the facilities can coordinate that stuff, but it’s easier on you if you’re close by. The more you can do on occasion, the less expensive those facilities will run. It’s hard to keep an eye on his care from far away. No reason to do that from Washington State.”

She thought of the boxes in the condo.

The condo she might need to sell just to foot the bill.

“Thank you. I had no idea.”

“No one really does until it happens,” Kyle said before standing.

Brooke thanked him and she walked to the parking lot beside Carmen.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Brooke agreed.

“Your dad doesn’t want you wiping his ass.”

As much as she loved him, she didn’t want that either. “He could pull out of it.”

They stopped in front of the brand-new car her father had frivolously bought that now meant an automatic deduction from his bank account. Even though Brooke hated the thing on principle, driving it made sense instead of renting something else.

“And what? Go back to living like he was at the condo? What’s he gonna do next, buy a boat?” Carmen patted the top of the car.

Brooke yanked open the door, slid behind the wheel. Ten minutes later they were back at the condo.

Both of them moaned. The walls of the space closed in, the boxes loomed in corners, and the scent of her father never seemed far away.

“Screw this,” Carmen said. “Pack a bag.”

“What?”

“I have an idea.”

“I can’t . . .”

“A few days. Just trust me. We’re driving.”

“But my dad—”

“Is being taken care of. So shut up and pack a bag.”

Carmen was right.

Still, Brooke hesitated. “Where are we going?”

“Just get in.”





CHAPTER FOUR


It was nice to be in the passenger seat.

The music blared and the air conditioner ran on high since the outside temperature was in the nineties.

They headed south.

“I don’t have my passport on me,” Brooke said when it was apparent they weren’t headed deeper into the desert.

“We’re not going that far.”

They’d crawled past most of the obnoxious traffic of the Inland Empire and had finally found the open highway.