10|With Little Preparation

There were several guards stationed throughout the floor and two outside Clarke's private ward. Their only job was to keep the media out. The last thing they wanted was stories of his father, true or otherwise, making the rounds. A CEO on his deathbed wasn't good for business and share prices.

Lois flew to him when they walked in. He hugged her, and she wept harder as he gently patted her head. It all made sense now, Liam thought, her lack of inspiration, the listlessness, the faraway look in her eyes. It wasn't that she couldn't paint. His Mom didn't want to. How could she when her best friend and soulmate was staring death in the face?

"Oh Mom," Liam whispered in her hair as he squeezed her. "You should have told me."

"You are here now," Lois gave him a shaky smile as she sat down again and took his father's hand.

Liam reluctantly approached the bed, a visceral feeling of terror bubbling at the pit of his stomach. He couldn't understand how Clarke had shrunk and aged so much in a space of a few hours. But, his father looked so serene as he slept. Liam knew, though, there was nothing peaceful about what he was going through, not with all the constant beeping and wheezing of the machines working overtime to keep him comfortable and the tons of tubes attached to him.

He leaned over and kissed his forehead.

Clarke opened his eyes. "There he is–" He said in a weak voice and tried to point a frail finger at him.

At that moment Liam would have given anything to hear his strong, roaring voice, the same one he'd used earlier to back him into a corner.

"You are such an old fool," Liam whispered.

"I guess you take after me then," Clarke shot back, and they both laughed tearfully.

"We are going to fix you," Liam said with conviction. "We'll beat this, and you'll come back stronger. I need you to come back and kick my butt and question all the decisions I make for Anderson Logistics."

"Don't complain when I do." His father's chuckle turned into a long fit of convulsive coughs that didn't seem to stop, even after making him take small sips of water.

Willow and Holly called in his doctors, and for fifteen minutes, the room was in chaos as they worked frantically to get him comfortable. Clarke passed out soon after they gave him a shot of morphine. Liam suggested they give his Mom something to help her sleep too, but Lois refused. She wanted to keep vigil over her husband.

Liam met with the doctors in a bland conference room on the administration floor, and they discussed his father's treatment plan.

"What's the prognosis?" He asked Dr Smith, the lead oncologist.

She's happy they caught the disease early enough, but she was worried it could have spread in the six months Clarke had delayed in getting treatment. As things stood, she and her team were running numerous tests to figure out the extent of the damage.

"I get that, but what are his chances?"

Dr Smith gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "We'll do everything we can to fight this. The five-year survival rate is about ninety percent."

Liam wished they didn't have to discuss the odds, but ninety percent sounded promising to him.

Almost an hour later, he left the conference room more optimistic than he was when he entered.

He checked on his father again. Clarke was still out cold, and so was his Mom. Both his sisters were wide awake, though, working furiously on their laptops.

Holly had to cancel her midday recital at the Civic Theatre and all other future performances until further notice.

Willow also had a nightmare on her hands with a new art installation at Fugue Art Gallery in Forrest Creek where she worked as a curator. She'd have to miss the first few showings, but her assistant would handle things in her absence.

He'd barely sat down in the only other empty seat in the room next to the bed when Mrs Gibson and her impressive troop of assistants showed up, and life as Liam knew it was over.

From that moment on, with little preparation and no guidance, he stepped into the CEO role he'd fought so hard to reject.