Read A Step of Faith for Free Online

nineteenth.”
    “Why are they waiting so long?”
    “That’s their first availability.”
    “Then how long is your recovery?”
    “Six to eight weeks,” I said. “If everything goes well.”
    “I’m sure it will go well,” she said. “But you’ll go insane waiting.”
    “Probably.”
    “So, may I come down and take care of you?” she asked. “Please.”
    “I would love for you to come,” I said. “When are you thinking?”
    “I’d like to come before the surgery. How about the sixteenth? Two weeks from today.”
    “That would be great,” I said. “Now I have something to look forward to.”
    “Me too,” she said.
    We talked for a few more minutes before saying goodbye.
    My father walked into the room after I hung up. “Was that Nicole?”
    “Yes. She wants to come down for the surgery.”
    “What did you say?”
    “I told her I’d love to see her.” I frowned. “Do you think I’m leading her on?”
    “She’s a friend and she cares. Where’s the crime in that?”
    I shrugged. “I just don’t want to hurt her. She means too much to me.”
    “She’s a big girl,” he said. “When is she coming?”
    “The sixteenth.”
    He nodded. “It will be nice having a woman around.”

    The next two weeks were miserable. As my surgery date neared, I started sleeping more—sometimes as much as fourteen hours a day. Dr. Schlozman had warned me that I would likely become more fatigued, but I think it was more than the tumor. I was also fighting depression. There was just too much around to remind me of McKale, too much time to think, and too little to do. You don’t realize how many memories of someone a place can hold until they’re gone.
    My dizzy spells and headaches were increasing in frequency and duration, and I began to have trouble walking. Still, I hated lying in bed. My father had an elliptical machine in his garage, which, with some difficulty, I used twice a day, though probably as much out of boredom as a desire to keep active.
    My father’s routine was as rigid as it had been when I was a boy. We ate dinner every night at six-thirty sharp, followed by dishwashing, then television in the familyroom with his customary bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
    There was one gradual and unwelcome change to our routine. Every night during dinner, when I was captive at the table, my father began pressing me with questions about my future, specifically my employment. He asked whether or not I was going to stay in advertising, if I planned to work for another firm or start a new agency, and if I would accept investors. “I know money people,” he said on more than one occasion.
    With his typical fastidiousness he would verbally walk me through a list of pros and cons for each option. Then, during his free time, he began searching the Internet for job openings at Los Angeles agencies and writing down their phone numbers just in case I wanted to “test the waters.”
    For several days he got on a kick about me getting a car, which he offered to buy even though I was in no condition to drive. Although I appreciated his support, I knew what he was doing. He was trying to nail me down.
    I suppose just as telling was what he never talked about. He never mentioned McKale, and he never talked about my walk. I could understand why he wouldn’t bring up McKale. But I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t talk about my journey. There was so much to talk about.
    From all appearances he resented my walk even though he had endorsed it back in Spokane.
    I humored him through it all, but it seemed that each dinner got gradually more uncomfortable. Nicole couldn’t get here soon enough.

    The day of Nicole’s arrival I moved my things to my childhood room so she could have her own bathroom. We picked her up at the airport around three in the afternoon. After our reunion, I began feeling unwell, so my father drove me home, then the two of them went shopping for dinner.
    I had forgotten what a good cook