I’d like to meet her before.
I shrug, numb as the words of the last weeks pummel me. He told me—they both did. My mom didn’t just know he was sick, she knew he wassick.
In the ambulance with his weathered hand in mine, every second lasts three hours.
The medic takes readings and puts an oxygen mask on his face.
“We haven’t found the gold,” I remind Cap.
A bump in the road jolts us.
“And you haven’t visited Fontain yet.” My voice is a little more angry, my cheeks a little more wet.
The medic works as the siren wails.
“I told you Penny was bad for you,” I say to Cap’s closed eyes. To the medics, I shout, “Do something!”
I don’t know if they respond, because suddenly, we’re at the hospital, doors flying open on the ambulance and the ER staff surrounding us. Shouts of medical terms bounce off one another and happen around me. Cap—my dad—is strapped to a gurney, barely breathing. They push him through double doors and down a fluorescent hall.
I stand in the parking lot until they disappear, then I drop to my knees and vomit.
Forty-Nine
“Ms. Conway,” the doctor calls, pulling Nash and I from the chairs in the waiting room.
I set a Styrofoam cup of coffee on a table, unsure how long I’ve been holding it or where it even came from.
“Dr. Leon,” she says, extending a hand.
Nash takes charge and guides introductions.
“He’s stable,” the doctor explains. “For now.”
“What happened?” I ask.
She looks cautiously between Nash and me. It takes seconds—two tops—but it’s telling. A too-short calm before a storm that will never end. Nash’s hand tightens around mine.
“Your father is in organ failure, Ms. Conway,” she says with a swallow.
“Like he needs a transplant?”
“Like—” She pauses again; these conversations must never get easier, even with all the practice they get. “He’s terminal.”
Terminal.What a terrible word.My mom’s“I sent you here to say goodbye”blares in my ears once again. She knew. Everyone knew. I should have seen it, but maybe I didn’t want to. Who meets a dad for the first time when he’s running out of it?
I claw at my neck. This can’t be right.
“How long?” Nash asks.
“We—”
“What can we do?” I cut her off, pulling away from Nash. “How can we get more time?”
She gives me a grim look. “Ms. Conway, he shouldn’t even be here now. He’s known for months this was coming. And you should know, your father has a DNR. We have him in a room where he’s comfortable, but that’s about all we can do. If?—”
“If what?” I demand, eyes burning with tears I refuse to cry.
“If he goes into cardiac or respiratory arrest—both likely given his condition—there’s nothing we can do.”
