I fumble with my phone, my fingers trembling as I scroll through the contacts, searching for my dad’s name. My hands shake so badly, I almost drop the phone. I press the screen with desperation, praying that he picks up, that he hears me, that heseesme.
When his name lights up, my heart leaps. I press the call button and wait, the silence stretching until finally, his voice breaks through.
“Dad,” I whisper, the word so fragile, like it might break if I speak too loud. “Can you please pick me up?”
“What? Why? What happened?” His voice is thick with concern, and it only makes the ache inside me worse.
I don’t want to tell him what happened. I don’t want to say it out loud. I can’t say it out loud.
“It’s happening again,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath.
There’s a pause. He knows. He knows what’s going on. He’s been here before.
“I’ll be right there,” he says, his voice filled with something I can’t quite place. “Go to the office.”
I hang up, too shaky to say anything else. My heart is thundering in my chest, the fear growing with every step as I make my way to the office. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. I just want to go home.
Inside the office, I walk up to the woman behind the desk, her eyes soft with sympathy as she takes in the state I’m in. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed and tugged on, but I push the words out anyway.
“I’m really not feeling well,” I say, my voice cracking. “I already called my dad.”
She nods, her face softening as she reaches for the phone. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll let you know when he gets here.”
I find a seat on the worn-out couch, sinking into its familiar discomfort. My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, the seconds stretching into an agonizing eternity.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want the lights or the questions or this stupid, scratchy couch.
I don’t want comfort from strangers.
I don’t want to be brave.
I just want to go home. I just want my dad.
***
Time slips away, the minutes blending into an hour, maybe even more. Exhaustion washes over me, and I find myself drifting off into a restless sleep.
And then, the door bursts open. Two police officers walk in, their faces tense, their eyes determined. My stomach churns, and I know, deep down, that something is wrong. They speak to the woman behind the desk, but their words are a blur. It’s all muffled noise to me. They turn their attention to me, and it’s like I can feel their eyes on me even before they speak.
“Adeline Ross?” one of them asks, his voice low and filled with something I don’t understand.
“Y-yes,” I answer, the word sticking in my throat.
“We’re truly sorry to inform you,” he begins, and my stomach drops, a terrible sensation that makes it feel like I’m falling into a bottomless pit. “your father, John Ross, was involved in a terrible accident on his way here. I’m afraid… he didn’t make it.”
No.
The world stops. My mind can’t process it, can’t grasp it, and yet, I hear the words again, and again.He didn’t make it.
The room spins, and for a split second, I think I’m going to pass out.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
“That’s not possible.” My voice breaks as the tears come. I can’t stop them. “Please tell me it’s not true.”
But their faces remain unchanged. The pity in their eyes is more than I can bear.
It’s not real. It’s a nightmare. Please let it be a nightmare.
