Page 31 of Forgettable in Every Way

“That’s a good thing.” She yawned.

“I’m sure you’re exhausted. Go home and get some rest.”

“The night shift is killer. Please don’t leave town without coming to see me.”

“I won’t. I’ll be here a couple more days to make sure my dad is settled and has the care he needs.”

“I’m going to miss you.” She hugged me tightly.

I held on for a long time. “I’m going to miss you too. But I’ll be back for all things wedding related.”

“Good, because it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

She made me tear up. I would always be thankful for the day I got sick and landed in the ER, and that she was the doctor on shift.

After we said our goodbyes, I sat there for a moment, not sure what to do. This was unknown territory for me—thinking about what was best for me.

“Julia,” my dad struggled to say, making me jump. He’d been so quiet and slept so much, I wasn’t expecting to hear him speak.

I scrambled off the couch and rushed to his bedside.

He looked so frail and worn. The bruise on his face appeared more swollen than the day before. It made me feel guilty for wanting to go back to LA, but he’d been ignoring me since my arrival. Perhaps it would make him more comfortable if I left.

“Do you need some water?” I asked. His voice was more croaky than usual.

He shook his head the best he could before reaching out his dry and cracked hand. It pricked my heart, remembering it wasn’t long ago he’d kept his hands neatly manicured with buffed and shined nails. Dad believed in making an excellent first impression, and to him it started with a firm handshake and a sharp outfit. But beyond that, my emotions swelled because I couldn’t remember the last time my dad had reached out to me or showed me any affection.

I sat in the chair next to his bed, took his hand, and held it between my own. It felt so cold against my warm skin.

“Julia,” he said again, tears welling in his eyes. His voice was so raspy and strangled.

I had never seen my father cry. “What is it, Dad? Are you in pain?”

“Don’t ... go,” he slowly got out.

“Don’t go where?” I asked, confused. Or maybe he was confused. I’d wondered if he’d had another stroke, but so far, all the tests said no.

Tears dripped down his sunken cheeks. “Stay,” he said as forcefully as he could.

I squeezed his hand tighter. “I’ll stay here until they release you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I ... don’t ... want you ...” He caught his breath. “To go b-b-b-ack to LA.”

He caught me off guard. “Why?” I asked, feeling guilty, knowing he must have heard some of my conversation with Calista. But maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was time I said the hard things. Or perhaps the thought of someone coming in to pack the house was too abhorrent for him.

His brow crinkled as if my question pained him. “I love you,” he whispered clearly.

“You do?” I blurted, before I could stop myself. But it was news to me.

Dad’s face fell in utter defeat. “Julia.” He gripped my hands the best he could. “I’m ... so ... s-s-s-sorry,” he cried.

This was definitely a first. My parents had never apologized to me. Not even when they missed my graduation.

“Please, don’t go,” he pleaded.

“Are you only asking because you heard what I said? Or because you’re afraid the house won’t get done?” I was honest, for once.

His face contorted. “That’s n-n-not ... why ... I ... want you to stay.” It took a lot of effort for him to speak. “I don’t want to m-m-move,” he admitted.

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