Page 30 of The Rookie's Sister

“Okay, fair.” Jeff fiddles with the A/C vents, cooling the flush creeping up his neck. “But your parallel parking leaves something to be desired.”

“Nothing that a little practice won’t improve.” I flash him a saccharine smile. “By the way, you’re welcome for chauffeuring your ungrateful butt everywhere the past few weeks.”

Jeff holds up both hands in surrender. “Kidding, I’m kidding. You know I appreciate you.”

He lapses back into silence, staring distantly out the window as I navigate the sparsely populated streets. I resist the urge to pepper him with pep talks or platitudes. Neither of us needs empty reassurances right now. All that’s required is showing up, come what may.

We arrive at Mercy Hospital’s towering main entrance, the glass doors glinting harshly in the stark sunlight. I find a spot close to the front, white lines still glistening from a recent rain.

“Ready?” I meet Jeff’s eyes, steady and resolute.

He nods, a muscle feathering along his stubbled jaw. “Let’s do this.”

Inside, the too-bright lights reflect off the polished linoleum floors, assaulting our senses after the muted outdoors. The waiting room stands mostly empty except for a security guard thumbing his phone behind the front desk. He barely glances up as we approach.

“We’re here for Charles Thompson’s surgery,” I inform him briskly. “Where should we wait?”

The guard - Darryl, according to his badge - directs us to a smaller waiting area outside the cardiac wing. His monotone instructions fade into the background as we follow the signs down the maze of corridors. The rhythmic beep of machinery and smell of antiseptics sharpen my nerves, grating against the lingering softness of my memories from last night.

In the waiting room, Jeff and I take seats beside a gurgling saltwater tank. A lone red fish darts behind swaying green tendrils of anemone. I watch the hypnotic movement, searching for a shred of the tranquility it emanates.

Jeff’s leg jitters up and down beside me until I lay a hand on his knee. He stills, shooting me a rueful glance.

“Sorry. Nervous habit.”

“I know. Used to drive Dad nuts during your games.” Fondness wells in my chest. “Remember what he’d say?”

Jeff nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. “The game is already won or lost in your head before you ever set foot on the field.”

His impression of Dad’s firm, steady timbre is spot-on. Hearing it ignites an ache deep in my core, tempered by a swell of gratitude to have Jeff with me.

We pass the next stretch of minutes, making idle small talk about Jeff’s upcoming practices, a neutral topic to keep our nerves at bay. But as the hour hand ticks closer to nine, the weight of uncertainty presses down like a physical force.

Just after 8:30, Dr. Klein appears through the double doors, wearing mint green scrubs and a sober expression. Jeff and I both rise to our feet.

“He’s all set in pre-op now,” Dr. Klein informs us. “We’ll take good care of him.”

I force my voice to remain steady. “What are his chances, realistically?”

Dr. Klein’s intelligent eyes soften behind his glasses. “There’s always risks with a procedure like this, as we’ve discussed. But your father is strong, and I have a very skilled team with me. We’ll do everything possible for him.”

I search his face, looking for false platitudes or sympathy. But I detect only calm assurance. Jeff grips my shoulder, subtly steadying me.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Klein squeezes Jeff’s arm. “I’ll come update you myself as soon as I can. You made the right choice.”

He turns to rejoin his team, white coat swishing. I blow out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Well, this is it.” I drop back into the stiff chair, doubts swarming like gnats. “Now we wait.”

Jeff collapses beside me, raking both hands through his hair until it stands on end. “God, I hate waiting.”

“Preaching to the choir.” I stretch my legs out, feigning nonchalance. “Good thing I come prepared.”

Digging in my purse, I produce two worn paperbacks - a thick spy novel for Jeff and a romance for myself. He accepts his with a snort.

“Only you would bring books to an ICU waiting room.”

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