“A gunshot wound to the foot is usually not fatal, but we’ll have to see.”
I didn’t say anything, just awkwardly strapped myself into the fold-down wall seat while we sped to Holy Cross. I evacuated to the cliffs on the coasts with coconut cookies and felt a rush of peace, letting my daydream spirit me away. Only later did I realize my hands had lost circulation, I’d been squeezing them so tightly between my thighs.
I’d never seen a hospital visit unfold so fast. It was like in America we waited until people were probably dying before finding a sense of urgency. There was a lot of medical jargon volleyed between the EMTs and nurses I didn’t understand. It seemed their biggest concern was blood loss and whether the bullet had exploded or stayed intact. I didn’t remember seeing my mom and aunt walk in, but suddenly my mom’s cold, bony hand was gripping mine. Her mouth was a focused line when the nurse spoke to us. She kept saying, “yes, Doctor,” even though the man was a nurse, but it didn’t matter. We weren’t allowed in the operating room, so the three of us sat in the waiting area. Waiting felt like being pummeled by a force much bigger than me, as if it were designed to make me confront the scale of my powerlessness. I knew he wasn’t going to die, but what if he was permanently disabled? Our lives would change, and there was already too much change whirling around us.
My aunt didn’t seem to mind waiting. She was playing Tetris on her phone while my mom sat with her legs crossed, rotating her ankle. I recalled her running after my dad in her ratty bathrobe, the way it flewopen revealing her splotchy chest, red from scratching her eczema in her sleep. Beneath my fear had been a disgust for the whole scene, how she nearly tripped racing down the porch while he lugged himself into the car like a log, nodding like her head might roll forward, everything to appease him.
But looking at her now, I felt something else entirely. Protective. That was the only way to describe the feeling, like I was a bird wanting to wrap her whole body inside my feathered cocoon.
I placed a hand on her back. She gave me a sad smile without looking at me. “He’s gonna be all right. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know,” I said. “How are you gonna be?”
She laughed. It sounded like a snort. “I’m gonna be all right too.”
The doctor walked into the waiting room a few hours later. She looked like a TV doctor with a peppy blond ponytail and enviable bone structure. Good news. The bullet hadn’t exploded, which meant they were able to extract most of it. But since the foot has a lot of bones, some were broken. She named which ones, but I didn’t really hear it. They’d keep him overnight to monitor, but already we were being handed aftercare brochures, the next several weeks narrated to us in the form of wound dressing, signs of infection, wheelchair, walker, crutch rentals. My mom turned to me mid-lecture and said, “Are you getting all this?”
“What? I—aren’t you listening?”
“I’m not the one who’s going to be taking care of him.”
When the doctor left, I asked, “Are we getting a home nurse or something?”
My mom was twirling her ankle again. I thought of my dad’s bloody foot, the hole that was in it now. “Sam is my Realtor.”
This admission only added pieces to the scrambled puzzle instead of putting anything together. “What? Are we selling the house?”
She said, “I’ve found a place. I’ll still be in the city. But I’m moving out at the end of the month.”
I must’ve looked confused because she said, “I’m tired. I can’t keepdoing this, I can’t. I know it’s not a good time. It was never going to be a good time. I was planning to tell you two. How was I supposed to know your father was going to up and shoot himself today?” Her laugh contained a yawn in it.
“Is it temporary?”
“No. But I’ll always be here for you.”
All that protectiveness I’d felt drained, an angry shock rising in its place. “Yeah, except for when I actually need you. How are we going to pay for the house?”
“I’ll help some, but you need to start putting in, especially since your dad probably can’t work for a while.”
My nightmare had materialized: I was stuck with my father, doing all the dreary shit my mom had to do around the house. Maybe I’d just let it fall apart. I was good at that.
She licked her thumb, reaching over to wipe the crust from my cheek. I slapped her hand away.
“Don’t be that way, Catherine. I’m here.”
“You keep saying that and yet you’re leaving.”
My aunt briefly glanced up from her game. My mom passed her a look I couldn’t interpret. I stood, wobbling slightly, and stormed toward the elevators, stabbing the down button with my finger until it arrived.
In the gift shop, I flipped through “Get Well Soon” cards in a fury. Covid had cannibalized my early twenties, made me an anxious wreck. I’d been climbing out of that feeling when the election hit like a tidal wave, clearing away that fresh, hard-earned hope, already brittle from watching Gaza’s obliteration. Now this: How long would I be taking care of my dad? I might as well crush my twenties up and dump them in the nearest trash can.
On my way out, my wrist got tangled in a thin balloon ribbon by the door. I drove my fist into the squeaky balloon and it jerked back like someone’s surprised face.
“Please don’t punch that,” the cashier said. I mumbled “Sorry,” then stepped through the hospital’s sliding doors into the cool March night.
My aunt called. I didn’t answer. Scrolling through my call log, I let my thumb hang over Jay’s name. He was who I wanted to speak to. He’d say the right words in a soft, assuring tone. He’d stop whatever he was doing, call me Kitty Cat, listening quietly as I rambled. Then he’d offer a gentle solution, one I couldn’t come up with on my own.
But what if I called and he was with the girl from the gallery? What if he didn’t pick up?
