Page 52 of The Rookie's Sister

My cheeks grow hot. I fiddle with the crossword, avoiding his scrutiny. “It’s nothing. Just stressed about work. And you being in here...” I trail off with a lame shrug.

He makes a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat. “This is about more than just work, though. Isn’t it?”

I risk a glance at him. His eyes are knowing but kind, crinkling at the corners. My fragile composure wobbles like a house of cards.

I look away again, smoothing the already wrinkle-free newspaper. Maybe if I just keep deflecting politely, he’ll drop it. Let me leave this room with my emotional walls still intact.

But Dad reaches over and places a warm hand over mine. “You know, if I’ve learned one thing from all this—” he gestures around the room, monitors beeping in punctuation “—from losing your mom, it’s how damn short life is.”

My eyes sting viciously. I dig my teeth into my bottom lip.

“Hell, I’m not afraid of dying,” he continues, giving my hand a squeeze. “What scares me is leaving things unsaid. Burdens I’ve placed on you kids without realizing.”

A ragged breath shudders out of me. Because I know exactly what burdens he means. The promise I made to him on this very bed to look after Jeff, no matter what. His dream of seeing his son go pro before...

Well. Before.

Dad shifts in the bed, wincing slightly. But his eyes stay rooted on mine. “I don’t want you making the same mistakes I did, Emma. Letting the future eclipse the present until it’s too late. Do you understand?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Just a faint wheeze, like a stepped-on squeaky toy. Dad’s face blurs through the film of tears I’m barely keeping at bay.

A knock at the door saves me from dissolving into a complete puddle. A nurse bustles in, her scrubs printed with cartoon zoo animals.

“Time for vitals,” she trills in a singsong voice, oblivious to the emotional grenade she just walked into. I wipe discreetly at my eyes as she wraps the blood pressure cuff around Dad’s arm, chattering about the weather.

Just as she finishes jotting down numbers, her head jerks up. “Oh! I almost forgot. Dr. Alden sent me to give you an update.” She bounces on her toes, barely containing a grin. My stomach drops at the name. Alden is the world-renowned surgeon, whose six-month waiting list might as well be booked till the next millennium.

Dad frowns at the nurse, as puzzled as me. “What update?”

“He’s cleared his entire morning Wednesday to operate on you!” She delivers this news like an announcer revealing lottery numbers. “Can you believe it? What luck!”

Her words land like an explosion, rattling the room’s foundations. Dad’s slack-jawed stare mirrors my own. Dr. Alden, operating on Dad? Wednesday? How is that possible?

The nurse continues gushing about what an honor it is while I try to process this seismic shift. Of all the brilliant surgeons in Chicago, what twist of fate brought the most gifted one to Dad’s operating table? My pulse thrums as I mentally sift through the possibilities.

Dad recovers first, shaking the nurse’s hand vigorously. “Well, I’ll be damned. Remind me to buy a lottery ticket!”

She titters, then bustles back out, leaving a charged atmosphere humming in her wake. Dad collapses back on the pillows, grinning like he won the Super Bowl. “Can you believe it, Emma? Alden himself!”

I mimic his smile on autopilot, my mind spinning. Alden’s availability is nothing short of a miracle. Which means someone must have pulled some major strings to make it happen. But who? And how did they even know we needed this help?

Dad yawns, eyes already drooping. Making arrangements with a medical legend is apparently exhausting work. But as he slips into sleep, that same knowing grin teases his lips.

I sit, watching his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Relief and confusion churn inside me, acidic as heartburn. I should be celebrating this eleventh-hour gift, but instead, my cop instincts are tingling. Pushing for answers.

I’m seized by the urgent need to slip into detective mode, scene-of-the-crime style. Crack this mystery wide open. But even the thought makes me feel small and ungrateful, like a kid sulking over the wrong color bike on Christmas morning.

Dad stirs, cracking one eye open. “You’re thinking so loud I can hear the gears grinding,” he rumbles.

I startle, realizing I’ve been sitting here just...staring. Gathering my turbulent thoughts, I offer him a contrite shrug. “Sorry, just processing everything. It’s a lot to take in.”

He gives me a knowing look I can’t quite parse. “Emma, a word of advice. Sometimes in life, you’ve just gotta take the win without over-analyzing how you got it.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he holds up one finger. “But other times, it’s worth digging for the truth. Even if it’s uncomfortable. You just have to trust your gut to know the difference.”

I frown, tearing a hangnail on my thumb. Dad sighs, eyes drifting closed again. “I’m tired, honey. How ‘bout you go hunt down some of that terrible coffee while I rest?”

Translation: I love you, but please stop sitting here having loud feelings at me.

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