I don’t know who I’m talking to when I think that word. The ceiling. The floor. The universe. My mother’s memory. Nobody.
Please.
I swallow hard and stare at the doors until my vision blurs, willing them to open.
Then they do, and a man in a white coat steps into the waiting room with a clipboard in his hand.
My head snaps up so fast my neck aches.
He scans the room, eyes landing on me like he already knows who I am.
“Erica Crawford?” he asks.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out at first.
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
He walks over, calm, professional, not rushed, and my stomach tries to climb into my throat anyway. I brace for the sentence I’ve been afraid of all day.
“Your father is out of surgery,” he says.
The air leaves my lungs in one ugly rush.
Out.
Out is good.
Out means he made it to the other side of the part where they cut him open and hope they can put him back together again.
“They’ve brought him back to the ICU,” the doctor continues. “He’s stable. You can come in to see him if you want to.”
If I want to.
Like there’s a universe where I don’t.
I stand so fast the chair squeaks, the sound too loud. My legs feel strange under me, like they’re not sure they’re supposed to work now that the waiting is over.
“Yes,” I say, too sharply. Then softer, because my voice cracks. “Yes, I want to.”
He nods and gestures toward the hall. “I’ll take you back.”
I grab my bag without thinking. My hands fumble with the strap. I get it over my shoulder on the second try.
He leads me down a hallway that smells even more like antiseptic. The lights are dimmer back here, softer. The sound is different, too. Less chatter. More beeping.
My heart is in my throat.
We stop at a sink.
“Wash up,” he tells me.
I scrub my hands like I’m trying to erase the last few months off my skin. I dry them on the thin paper towel and follow him to the curtain.
“This is him,” he says quietly.
Then he pulls it back, and the room opens up.
Dad is there.
