Page 144 of The Rom-Commers

“There wasn’t time to wait.”

“Are you in the waiting room?”

“I stepped outside. Salvador says that thing about cell phones messing with hospital equipment is real.”

I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to start. The biggest, loudest question, of course, wasWill Dad be okay?

But Sylvie didn’t have the answer to that question.

So I went with the next one that came to mind: “Why was it Mrs. Otsuka’s grandson?”

“What?” Sylvie asked.

“Why was Mrs. Otsuka’s grandson the one who called 911—not you or Salvador?”

A weird pause.

“Sylvie?”

Then a quiet answer. “Because we… weren’t home.”

“What!” I shouted—so loud the driver swerved. Then, quieter: “Where were you?”

“We were at the beach,” Sylvie said. “On a date.”

Worse and worse.

It’s pretty rare for me to be totally speechless. But I was.

When I finally found some words, all I could do was repeat: “You wereat the beach? On adate?”

At that, Sylvie burst into tears—her voice thick and trembling. “Dadtoldus to go! Heinsistedwe go! He practically forced us!”

“So you left his lifein the hands of a seven-year-old?”

Sylvie couldn’t deny it.

I went on. “You can’t go to the beach when you’re Dad’s caregiver!You can’t goanywhere! Why do you think I haven’t had any fun in ten years? Do you think I just have a bad personality? That I don’t like fun? What part of all the medicines and the charts and the hemiplegia and the five books I handed you on Ménière’s disease gave you the idea that you could just take off for the beach? Would you like to know how many times I went to the beach in all these years? Zero! Zero times! You’ve been at it six weeks—and you decided to justtake a vacation?”

“We weren’t taking a vacation,” Sylvie said. “We were getting engaged.”

I stopped.

Then I said, “Engaged? Like, to be married?”

“To be married,” Sylvie confirmed. “Salvador asked Dad’s permission last week, and then the two of them cooked up this whole scheme—and they were so excited about it. Totally in cahoots. And Dad was having so much fun and really bonding—not that they needed to bond. They’re already like BFFs. Dad’s teaching Salvador how to play the harmonica, and they’ve set up a dartboard in the living room—”

“That can’t be a good idea—”

“—and Salvador loves Dad, and he’s so good at looking after people—just such a nurturer—and so he’s got this whole dream for us that we’ll get married and build our lives around Dad, and family, and being the best caregivers ever, and so that’s what we were trying to do: just take another step forward into our lives together and making it all happen.”

“And then you went to the beach,” I said, in a tone that clearly sounded much more likeAnd then you killed our dad.

Which—granted—was maybe a bit harsh.

Sylvie descended into sobs.

But I didn’t care.

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