I don’t wait for a reply before shoving my phone into my purse and tossing my bag on the passenger seat of my car. Right now, all I can think aboutis Ethan.
Ispent the entire two-hour drive from Columbia to Charleston trying not to catastrophize. But my brain wasn’t having any of that. Each time I tried to think of something positive or nothing at all, my brain forced me to think about the worst.
When I called Ethan this morning, I asked him for advice on this case I’m working on—something I do more often than I’d like to admit. I can’t remember if I said I love you before hanging up.
I must have. Right?
We spoke for only a few minutes before we both had to get back to work.
Will that be the last time I talk to him?
I try to shake the thought from my head.
I’ll never see him again. Did I say I love you? Does he know?
By the time I make it to the hospital, my hands are sore from how tightly I gripped the steering wheel. I’m feeling disoriented. I don’t even remember what played on the radio or if it was even on. My mind was bouncing from one topic to the next, trying to latch onto something. Anything.
I knew my mind was spinning out, bordering on an anxiety attack. But I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I was just the passenger in my brain, forced to go where it led me.
I make my way to the waiting room, where I find my parents. Glancing around the space, I notice a few other people.
My parents look exhausted—like they carry the weight of the world on their shoulders; I suppose in many ways, they do. They’reboth staring at the wall; neither of them is speaking. Worry is plastered on their faces, and I’m positive my expression mirrors theirs. I feel the anxiety rolling off my body, my heart won’t slow down, and my palms feel sweaty. It’s like I can’t catch a full breath.
I look down to see Mom clutching Dad’s hand with both of hers; the sight is jolting. He’s her lifeline, and I’m glad he’s been here, so she isn’t dealing with this on her own.
Dad notices me first and pats Mom on her leg with his free hand to get her attention, then gestures to me.
I’ve always known Dad to be confident, always speaking with authority. Growing up, I knew I could always rely on him for anything. He always listened to Ethan and me, offering advice when we needed it. He’s still that rock for me.
They must have come straight from work. Dad is still wearing a dark gray suit, but he’s taken the jacket and tie off—which are now on the empty seat next to him—and rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt. Mom is wearing jeans, a T-shirt with her bakery logo on it, and a cardigan.
Dad is the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome. He’s just over six feet tall, with dark brown hair peppered with gray. He gives me a small smile as I make my way over to them. He seems so small right now. His shoulders are slightly hunched forward, and his usually vivid blue eyes, a little darker than Ethan’s, are dull and lifeless.
I’ve always thought Mom was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s the same height as me—five feet, five inches. Her blonde hair is sprinkled with silver-gray threads. It’s currently twisted in a bun held in place with a black clip. Her usually vibrant green-with-gold flecks eyes—the same color as mine—are watery, and I know she’s trying to hold back tears.
She doesn’t live for the trends or care what others think about her. She knows what she wants and has never been afraid to demand it. I’ve always loved that about her.
They’re both fit and have stayed active, even though they are in their early sixties now. They’ve always loved to go on hikes, ride their bikes through the neighborhood, and go boating on the weekends.
Now? They look so broken, and it’s startling to see them this way. It makes me more worried for Ethan.
“Hey, baby girl, how was the drive?” Dad’s usually smooth voice is shaky as he approaches me, giving me a quick hug.
“It was fine, Dad. I stopped at my apartment to grab a few clothes.” I don’t want to tell them how chaotic the drive felt. That I couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan. That I’m terrified.
Mom kisses me on the cheek before wrapping me in her arms. “Hi, pretty girl.” Her voice is fragile—it cracks my heart open. The use of the nickname she gave me as a child always warms my heart. But it feels off right now.
“Hey, Ma.” I hug her back. Once we step away from our embrace, I ask the question burning through me: “What happened?”
Mom’s face crumples as her body racks with sobs.
Oh God!
I can count the number of times I’ve seen Mom cry on one hand. My mind immediately goes to the worst, but I remain silent as Dad and I pull her into an embrace, one of us on each side of her.
We stand there until Mom’s body calms and her tears stop. My world is at a standstill until I know what’s going on.
When we finally sit down, my parents share what they know.
