Dad’s asleep. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him with his eyes closed. He’s in one of those blue cotton hospital gowns with an IV buried in his arm and wires coming out from his chest.
“Did they give him pain medication?” I whisper to Mom. I want to cling to her hand, but she has her arms crossed in front of her. It takes all my energy to keep the tears out of my eyes and collected in a tight ball in my throat where they can’t escape.
“He’s on a lot of meds. They’re monitoring him.”
It’s creepy to stand and watch while Dad’s asleep. His black hair, streaked with gray in the same places as Mom’s, looks dull against the harsh bleached white of the pillowcase. I could sit down and hold his hand, but that feels unnatural. We don’t touch very often. I can’t remember the last time he hugged me.
I look at the lines on the heart monitor and desperately wish Icould pull out my phone to have something to do that isn’t this. Beside us, the roommate’s family bids him a boisterous goodbye as they file out. “You’ll need to leave soon,” Mom tells me, eyes not moving from Dad’s hands. “I told you there was no reason to come.”
“I wanted to.”
She reaches out to give me a little side hug, and I burrow into it. I’m thirty years old and need my mommy. “I’m going home soon, too. Phoebe will be here tomorrow.”
“What?”
“She’s taking the morning train from Montreal and staying with a friend.”
I don’t answer. The last time my older sister was in Toronto, we had a fight that ended in her telling me I was a repressed child who needed to grow up. Then she stormed out of the café where we’d met for coffee.
What infuriated me was that she’d left before I said what I thought of her. No, that I didn’t get a chance to tell her I never think about her. That’s what I would have said. That’s what I was going to text her before I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
“She misses you,” Mom says.
I glare at her. “I don’t need you to try to fix things like a 1950s mom, thanks. We’re adults.”
She doesn’t answer, and we watch Dad sleep until the nurse comes to say visiting hours are ending soon. I slowly go to his side of the bed and give him a squeeze on the arm. He doesn’t move, and Mom ushers me out.
We stand in the corridor for a moment. “I’ll keep you updated,” Mom says.
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
“We’ll see what happens after the test results, okay, sweetie?”
“Mom.”
“I promise I’ll keep you updated.” She gives me a hug. This one has the reassurance I crave, but she’s also captured my arms close tomy sides so I can’t return it. It’s over as quick as it happens, and she steps away from me. “Go home and get some sleep.”
She waves me down the hall as she retreats into Dad’s room. I don’t look back as I make my way to the waiting room.
My heart thumps with relief to see Jihoon sitting there with his cap pulled down and a face mask on. I didn’t know how much I wanted him to wait. He jumps up when he sees me.
“Home?” he asks.
I nod.
“Want to talk?”
I shake my head.
“Then let’s go.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders, only for a moment, but I feel the absence when he moves away.
Six
When we get home, Jihoon waves me away when I reach for my wallet and pays the cab driver. I idly watch a group of dude-bros barrel down the sidewalk, slapping each other on the back for no apparent reason. Dad is safe, so I shouldn’t be worried, but it’s not like I can schedule my anxiety.
Jihoon walks around the back of the cab to join me, but I don’t want to go in. The thought of being cooped up in the apartment is unbearable. “I’ll be up soon,” I say. “I’m going for a walk.”
He glances up the now-empty street. “May I come?” he asks, pulling his mask down slightly.
