I wish it were all just a bad dream, but it’s real, and today is the first full day of this waking nightmare.
At least the nurse didn’t call during the night. No news is good news, I tell myself.
I roll over, reach for my phone, and discover that Becky texted me at 7:40 a.m.
Good morning, sweetie. I hope you got some sleep. I’m going to cook a pot of your favorite chicken chili and put it in your fridge while you’re at the hospital. I can let myself in through the garage. Heat it up when you get home.
I’d also like to come to the hospital to visit your mom. Just between you and me, I’m struggling because this whole situation reminds me of the day I lost my brother and almost my best friend too. Your mom was in the hospital for a long time back then, but she survived, and that’s what I’m trying to remember—what a fighter she was, and still is. <3 I can come to the ICU at lunchtime, if that’s okay, to give you guys a break.
And I hope things were okay at home last night. I’ve been reading all the comments on social media, and that can’t be easy for any of you. Call me if you want to talk. I’m always here for you. <3
Becky sent the messages only twenty minutes ago, so I decide to call her instead of text, because I do want to talk. I want to tell her about how I woke up in the middle of the night and heard my dad crying.
I press the call button, and Becky answers before the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” I reply. “I just woke up. I read your message about your brother, and I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, kiddo. This is rough on all of us.”
“Yeah. A pot of chili would be great,” I add. “That’s so kind of you.”
She lets out a sigh. “It’s not kindness. I need to stay busy, or I’ll lose my mind. I assume you haven’t heard anything from the hospital?”
“Nothing.” I sit forward and pat Oscar, who’s stretched out on the bed at my feet.
“And how are things this morning?” Becky asks. “After a fresh social media explosion?”
“Oh, God.” I cup my forehead in my hand. “Please don’t tell me it’s gotten worse.”
“Not worse. There’s just more of it. Has your father seen it?”
“Yes.” I rise from bed. “And I don’t think he’s taking it well. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of ...” I pause because I’m not sure how to describe it to Becky. It feels like a betrayal of Dad’s privacy, but I really do need someone to talk to, and Mom—my usual confidante—isn’t here. “He let out a terrible moan,” I tell her. “It was awful ... like someone cut him in half.”
She pauses. “I’m so sorry. Does he know you heard him?”
“Yes, I think so. Oscar was at his door sniffing, so Dad came out and saw me standing in the hall. We went downstairs and talked. Dad made cinnamon toast for us.”
“Really.” She sounds skeptical. “He still remembers that.”
“Yeah. It was kind of nice, actually. It felt like I had my old dad back, but still ...” I stop talking because I’m not even sure what, exactly, I want to say.
“Can you finish that thought?” Becky asks gently.
I move to my closet to choose what to wear to the hospital. “I’m just so freaking angry with him. More than angry, and not just for being an absentee father since he opened the restaurant. I’m mad at him for making Mom handle everything on her own. And the cherry on top is him taking her to Peggy’s Cove after a storm and letting her get too close to the waves. It’s his fault this happened to her. She should never have been there.”
Becky gives me a moment, then speaks calmly. “Did you communicate that to him?”
I find my black turtleneck sweater, pull it from the top shelf in the closet, and reach for my most comfortable blue jeans. “Yes, and he said he felt bad about everything, and that he knows he hasn’t been a great dad.”
“Well, that’s progress, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. But it’s hard to look past what happened to Mom. He even admitted to me that he was responsible.”
Becky takes a long time to respond. “I beg your pardon?”
I pull off my pajama top and toss it onto the bed. “He said it was his fault this happened. He obviously feels guilty, but I’m glad. He deserves to feel that way.” I pull my sweater on over my head. “Then he just sat there and said he was praying for forgiveness. Maybe God can forgive him, but if anything happens to Mom—if she doesn’t wake up—I don’t think I could.” I take a few seconds to recall our conversation last night. “But he is my dad. Connor and I would be orphans without him. He’ll be responsible for looking after us.” The next words out of my mouth are infected with hostility. “We’ll see how he does without Mom around. He should’ve appreciated her more.”
