Page 160 of Bad Run

Present

Tears cloud my vision as I stare at my father lying in the hospital bed.

I wish my mom had prepared me better before I arrived. Not only did he break his leg when he fell, but on impact he also hit his head on the concrete and has some swelling on his brain.

The doctors say he’s stable but are concerned because he has been unconscious since yesterday when the paramedics brought him in. They warned us that if the swelling doesn’t go down and he doesn’t wake up, they will need to intervene. Which means surgery to relieve some of the pressure in his brain.

My dad, Kenneth Taylor, is a big man—six-five and broad-shouldered. Strong and straightforward. He looks nothing like that now. The hospital bed dwarfs his size, making him appear small and weak. His face is swollen, and there are so many tubes and wires attached to his body.

Fuck.

I reach out and place my hand on his leathery one as regret and shame sit like hot and sour liquid in my stomach.

My relationship with my father broke when I went to college, and I haven’t spoken to him in years. I hate to think the last words I ever said to him were said out of anger.

What kills me most is that I might never get a chance to talk to him again.

“Dad, it’s me, Lance. I know you probably don’t want to see me, but I really need you to wake up,” I whisper, my voice scratchy from disuse. Desperation seeps into each syllable.

It’s just him and me in the room.

After I promised not to leave my dad alone under any circumstances, my mom agreed to go home to take a shower and eat some breakfast. We had been up all night, but I could tell she was exhausted.

When I arrived, Mom jumped from her seat, tears streaming down her cheeks, and wrapped me in a hug, breaking into sobs in my arms. I hate that she was at the hospital alone, while my grandmother stayed behind to close the flower shop.

It’s my fault she didn’t call sooner. Mom has been bugging me for ages to speak to my father and bury the hatchet. Turns out, I’m as stubborn as my father.

“You can’t leave Mom all alone. And you sure as hell can’t leave without talking to me.” I sigh, watching the monitors for any sign that he’s listening.

Nothing. No movement. Just the sound of the heart monitor.

“I know you hate me for not following in yours and Arthur’s footsteps, but I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want that life. I wanted to carve my own path. All I ever wanted was for you to be proud of me. I’m so fucking sorry, Pop. I never meant to disappoint you. But you can’t leave me. Not until we work this out. We’ve already lost so much time. I got married a few months ago, and I didn’t even call to tell you and Mom. I don’t want that anymore. I want you to be there.” My head falls, chin to chest, as my tears break free and fall down my cheeks.

The beeps and hums of the machines monitoring my dad continue to beep and hum as I quietly cry.

A throaty groan catches my attention.

“Dad?” I sniff, wiping the tears from my eyes as I stand, hovering over his resting form.

My hopes sink as he lies motionless in the bed.

Then his eyelids twitch.

“Dad, can you hear me?”

He squints, adjusting to the light, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Lancelot?”

Relief floods my system at the sound of his voice. “Yeah, it’s me, Pop.”

He coughs, body wracking from the action. “Fuck.” He moans in pain, reaching for his head. The IV tugs at the back of his hand. “What the hell?”

I lay my hand on his forearm. “Relax, you’re in the hospital. You need to stay still.”

“I am? What happened?” He closes his eyes, trying to decipher yesterday’s events.

“You fell off the roof. You’ve been out for”—I look at my phone—“almost twenty-four hours. You have a nasty concussion and a broken leg.”

“Makes sense. Feels like I got run over by a Mack truck,” Dad grumbles, making me chuckle. He groans again, trying to sit up to look at his cast leg.