If it goes higher. If his breathing changes. Don’t wait.
My hands shake as I spin toward the couch where I tossed my phone when I came in.
I grab it so hard it nearly slips out of my fingers.
I don’t even look at the number.
I just hit the buttons and bring it to my ear, my whole body cold and hot at the same time.
“911,” I breathe, voice breaking.
The ER waiting room is too bright and too cold, like they designed it to make you feel uncomfortable and awkward on purpose.
The chairs are the same vinyl you find in every other hospital, arranged in neat little rows. The TV on the wall is on some channel with laughing people, and the sound is muted, so it’s just faces moving and mouths opening and closing with noaudio. A woman a few seats down rocks a stroller. A man in work boots stares at the floor like he’s trying to drill a hole through it.
I sit with my phone in my hand, screen lit, as if I stare hard enough, it’ll make time move faster.
Nico is on his way.
He’s coming.
I called him the second we got to the hospital. My voice shook so badly I barely got the words out. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t tell me to calm down. He just said, “Where are you?” and then, “I’m coming.”
It should help.
It doesn’t.
I want him here now.
I want him sitting beside me with his knee pressed to mine and his arm around me. I want him between me and every worst-case scenario my brain keeps throwing at me like knives.
My dad is behind a set of doors I can’t see through.
Again.
I keep replaying the last twenty minutes in my head like I can find the moment where I could’ve stopped it. The shivering. The sweating. The short breaths. The way my stomach dropped as soon as I saw him, because my body knew before my brain figured it out.
I called 911.
I did the right thing.
And it still feels like I’m failing.
My leg bounces. I force it still. Two seconds later, it’s bouncing again.
I hug my arms to myself, thankful for the sweater. Thankful for the EMT who told me if I wanted to get dressed, I had one minute while they were loading my dad up.
At least I’m not in short-shorts and a barely-there tank top.
I check my phone. No new text yet. No “I’m here.” No “Walking in.” I stare at the little delivered checkmark from the last message I sent.
Please hurry.
I hate that I need him like this. I hate that the need feels like panic and not a choice. I hate that there’s a part of me that wants to curl into his chest and let him take over everything because I’m too tired to keep holding it all up.
A set of double doors opens down the hall, and I look up so fast my neck hurts.
Not a nurse.
