My phone rings.
My mother's ringtone.
I don't reach for it. I can't add another voice to this room.
The ringing stops.
The men are still talking. Owen has pivoted to specifics. Timelines, fund review processes, the window in which disclosure might be managed versus the window in which discovery would be catastrophic.
My phone pings with a text message.
I reach into my pocket. And read the message that my mother just sent me.
Maya pick up the phone your father is in the hospital he had a heart attack
34
MAYA
The heart monitor bips that my father is alive.
Steady. Regular. The green line on the screen tracing its small mountains and valleys, each peak a contraction, each valley a rest, the mechanical proof that Ray Reeves is still here. Still breathing. Still occupying the narrow hospital bed with the guardrails up and the IV line running from a bag on a pole to the bruised crook of his left arm.
He's napping. His face is slack in a way I've never seen on my father, the specific looseness of a body that has been through something enormous and is conserving everything it has left. His cheeks are thinner than they were just a few months ago. His hair, which was always more salt than pepper, has gone fully white.
He's going to be okay. The doctors said so. Moderate cardiac event. Caught early enough.
But he's sixty-one years old and the heart can be tricky.
I stand by the window. The blinds are half-closed, cutting the Los Angeles light into strips that fall across the linoleum floor.The room smells of antiseptic and recycled air. No rosemary. No woodsmoke. No coffee brewed at five in the morning.
I think about last week.
I drove myself to the airport. The highway unspooling ahead, Montana shrinking in the rearview mirror. I couldn't do the airport goodbye. I couldn't stand on a curb with a suitcase and watch their faces while I left.
It was hard enough to say goodbye at the cabin. Reid's hand on my jaw, his thumb against my cheekbone, his eyes searching mine for something I couldn’t give him.
Jace's arms around me so tight I could feel his heartbeat. I can still hear him saying that he should come with me. And the look on his face when I told him no.
Owen standing slightly back, his hands in his pockets, his face composed, his eyes not.
They understood that I had to come and be with my father. But, they also understood what it was. A goodbye.
Reid texted that night.Did you arrive safe?Two days later, another.We're here when you're ready.I didn't answer either one.
Jace called. Three times the first day. Twice the second. Once the third. After that, nothing. The silence of a man who got the message.
Owen didn't reach out. At all.
The heart monitor beeps. Sixty-two. Sixty-two. Sixty-two.
The door opens and my mother walks in, followed by Amy, the nurse that has the morning shift. My mum also looks aged and tired. Her hair is pulled back but not styled. Her clothes are clean but they don’t match. She's been sleeping at the hospital, going home only to shower and change, and the routine has worn her down.
"How is he?" she asks.
"Napping. Vitals are steady."
Amy checks the IV, makes a note on the chart, adjusts the pillows. She's young, efficient, and most importantly kind.
