“What?” I shouldn’t be surprised that she jumped right into it. Phoebe goes after what she wants with the tenacity of a bulldog and the impulsivity of a child.
“After I saw you last and we had that fight. You didn’t call.”
“You want to do this here? Now?”
Her eyebrows lift. “When else?”
“It was obviously your responsibility to call since you were the one who walked out,” I point out. “Not me.”
She bites her lip. “You could have emailed.”
“Wow, so could you, if you weren’t such an immature asshole.”
A man passing by with his toddler glares at me. We wait until they pass, as frozen as the statue game we used to play as kids except for the deep flush I feel traveling up my neck from embarrassing myself in public.
“Me?” she finally says. “Me, immature. That’s rich.”
“Right. Like you’re not the one always running away and expecting me to chase after you.”
Phoebe huffs and stares at the ceiling. “Yeah, because that’s totally what you do.”
“It’s what you want me to do.”
Her eyes snap down to me. “You don’t know jack about what I want.”
The nurse comes out and smiles, oblivious or uncaring of the tension woven between us. “You can go in now,” she says. “He’s awake.”
Phoebe thanks her in a sugary voice. I do my best not to shoulder Phoebe out of the way as I go in, even though I want to slap her. I’m not violent as a rule, but Phoebe brings out my worst self. Her boots thump behind me, and when I look through the curtain, Dad is propped up and frowning at his hands as Mom sits beside him tapping on her phone.
“Ariadne.” His voice sounds a little rough. He looks past me to where my sister has pulled the curtain open to reveal herself. “Phoebe. What are you both doing here?”
When I turn, I see the gobsmacked expression on my sister’s face. Despite our fight in the hall, we share a glance of understanding. Dad being Dad.
“You had a heart attack,” Phoebe says slowly. “Of course we’d come.”
“I’m fine,” he says with a dismissive wave. “I’ll be good as new in a couple days.”
“That’s not really how a recovery works,” Phoebe says. Both Mom and I shoot her a look, and for once she pays attention to the social cue and lightens her whole attitude. “I mean, sure, Dad! That’s great news.”
“Can you pour it on any thicker?” I mutter.
“Shut up,” she mutters.
Dad pulls lightly at one of the wires. “All unnecessary. Doctors always play it too safe.”
“Martin, I can’t believe you.” If possible, Mom’s arms fold tighter over her chest. “This is a wake-up call.”
“I’m fine.”
“This is not fine.”
“Soolin.” We all know that voice, which is the one that always ends the conversation. There’s no point in arguing with Dad when he’s in this mood. Mom’s lips pleat, but she keeps quiet and busies herself moving around the items on the side table.
Dad turns his head to look at me. “Ariadne, how’s work?”
“Great, but Mom said you need to…”
He holds up a hand, then stares at it as if surprised it’s pincushioned with IV needles. “I can take care of myself,” he says. “You need to worry about you.”
