I can only offer a partial smile because words aren’t coming to me. He’s being so genuinely nice and caring when our vague past ended ten years ago. It isn’t the worst feeling in the world.
11
The hospital seems harderto walk into. Rather than the scent of ammonia and bleach, the aroma of sanitizer drowns everything else out. Theelevator feels confining, and the lights seem duller. Then, there are the beeps—the beeps haunt me in my sleep.
I feel like I’m invisible as I walk through a tunnel of nurses, doctors, patients, and visitors. Everyone has their own agenda, moving at a pace, which allows them to be where they need to be. I’m slower because I’m scared to see if Dad looks worse this morning than last night. I want to see him happy and healthy—the person I’ve always known, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance again.
Journey and Mom are already here, sitting in the same seats they were in last night. Dad is asleep with an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. My heart pounds, a pinching pain tears at my stomach, and I take my place on a rolling stool the doctor uses when he comes in to examine Dad.
"Any updates?" I ask them.
"His heart isn’t too strong today. The struggle is taking a lot out of him," Mom says.
"Is he just going to deteriorate like this? No more good days?" I wish I had known sooner. I wish I had come home weeks ago and spent those days with him, but he didn’t want me to know, and I feel angry about it.
"They don’t really know, sweetie. We have to take it day by day," Mom says. How is she so calm? How come I’m so weak?
Journey has had her head back and her eyes closed since I arrived. I don’t know if she’s asleep or just thinking, but she hasn’t looked up at me.
"I don’t think she’s sleeping at night," Mom whispers, motioning her head at Journey.
"Probably not."
"Did you get the muffins to the shop?" Mom continues.
"Yes, Brett sends his regards.”
"He’s such a nice guy," Mom says with a sigh.
I want to roll my eyes because I don’t understand the sudden love fest for Brett. He just started helping in the shop this week, so it’s not like he’s been around before then. At least, I don’t think so.
"Yeah, you’ve said this already," I agree, keeping my response short.
"His parents are stopping by today to visit Dad."
"That’s nice of them.” I might not sound as appreciative as she does, but I have very little energy for emotion.
Once I’m settled on the stool, leaning against the wall with one foot pressed to the ground so the stool doesn’t roll, I pull my phone out of my coat pocket, ready to check my emails after being unplugged for the last few days, but there’s a message on my display.
Your Teenage Crush:Hang in there.
I didn’t add this name to my contacts … I didn’t enter these words into my phone.
Me:Brett?
Jerk.
Your Teenage Crush:You’ve now confirmed my age-long question.
Me:Are you always this cocky?
Your Teenage Crush:Nah, just trying to distract you.
I want to find this conversation annoying, yet there’s a strange feeling along the crease of my mouth, the muscles tugging upward, opposite from which it’s been the last few days.
"What are you smiling about?” Mom says, sounding hopeful at the mere sight of a pleasant look on my face. None of us have smiled much since I’ve been home.
"Oh, it’s nothing—just a stupid message."
