Mutant by Peter Clement Page B

grief as well?
    “You know, Chet, my heart is probably going to be all right,” he said hesitantly, not at all certain he’d be able to reassure him about anything anymore.
    The boy didn’t look up, but his pen paused in midstroke.
    He’s interested, thought Steele, hoping that this time he’d say the right words. “In fact, I’ll be coming home in about ten days.”
    “Mom came home, too,” he answered glumly, still staring at the page of his notebook.
    Steele swallowed once or twice as he tried to think up a reply. After a few seconds he settled on what he thought would most directly address Chet’s anxiety. “My heart attack isn’t like Mom’s cancer. I
can
get completely better. And who knows, if you and Martha nag me enough about diet and exercise, I might end up healthier than ever.”
    Chet winced as if he’d been poked in a still-fresh bruise. Flushing with anger, he threw down his books and leaped from the chair. “You lied to me about Mom. You told me she’d be okay, too. Why should I believe you now? And what makes you think I even care if you’re going to be all right or not?”
    Steele found the hurt in his son’s glare so penetrating that for an instant he thought he saw Luana reproaching him from the grave. “Chet, come here, please,” he commanded quietly.
    The boy looked uneasy, but his expression softened, and he stepped tentatively forward.
    When he got close enough, Steele took him by the hand and said, “How about giving your daddy a hug.”
    Chet hesitated and then leaned over, his hands awkward as he slipped them around his father’s shoulders.
    Steele gently wrapped his son in his arms and held him. He felt Chet initially stiffen and then relax. “I love you, Chet,” he whispered. “I swear I’m going to get out of here, and I promise you I’ll be your daddy again.”
    Chet said nothing; neither did he relax his hold.
    Perhaps it’s a start, Steele thought.
    Having spent a lifetime sentencing others to the consequences of illness, he didn’t take well to being sentenced himself.
    “No ER work for at least six months,” declared the same chief of cardiology who’d previously been so enthused about the success of the angioplasty, “and then we’ll see.”
    “Sitting on my can for six months?” Steele protested incredulously. “That’ll kill me! How about three?”
    “You know the rules governing the return to normal activity as well as I do, Doctor.”
    “Those are guidelines, dammit! Meant to
guide
doctors in their clinical decision making, not bind them.”
    “And they’ve done exactly that, Richard. Guided
me
, the doctor, in making my decision about
you
, the patient. And that still makes them rules as far as you’re concerned.”
    “But you yourself said that I had ‘such a good outcome.’ Doesn’t that give me an edge?”
    “Of course, your smoking days are over,” continued the older man, overruling Steele’s objections by ignoring them totally. “The nurses will provide you with printed matter on diet, exercise, and a schedule regarding the resumption of regular physical exertion. As for sex, nothing for three months; then you can gently begin relations again.”
    I’ll let my hand know, Steele nearly quipped, growing increasingly peeved at the lecture.
    “How’s Chet doing?” he asked Martha on the eve of his going home. She’d brought in the clothing he’d need. Chet himself had stopped visiting him as soon as he’d transferred from CCU to a regular room—nearly a week ago.
    “How do you think?” replied the lithe sexagenarian. “He’s mad at you for making him afraid that you’ll die, and he’s mad at you for still making him care if you do. And, of course, those feelings are all mixed up with the usual need of a thirteen-year-old to have his old man around so he can defy the hell out of him.”
    Steele found himself grinning at the feisty white-haired woman who’d never failed to be blunt with him when it came to harsh truths