Page 91 of Friend Me

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The next fewhours flashed by in a smear of images and sounds.

Red and blue flares across the curious faces of our neighbors. The blare of the siren as we inched too slowly through the rush-hour traffic. The smell of disinfectant and shock in the emergency room, and then disinfectant and fear on the surgery floor. The flicker of over-bright fluorescent lights on eighty-four white vinyl floor tiles. The hard plastic chair, worn smooth by other anxious, waiting, terrified fidgeters. Looking up at every movement, hoping not to be called and told my world was ending.

Later, thebeep, beep, beepof the heart monitor kept my heavy eyelids from closing. From the relative comfort of the stiff vinyl chair in Dad’s hospital room, I watched the rise and fall of his chest through half-open eyes. Once a minute, I checked his slack, gray face but avoided looking at the shaved patch in his white hair and the bandage that covered the twelve stitches in his scalp. I wasn’t as worried about his leg—we’d been through that before—but I willed his heart to keep pumping and that monitor to keep beeping and Dad to stay with me and not leave me because I’d been selfish and careless.

I curled up in the unforgiving chair, curved my fingers around his limp hand, and waited.

* * *

Sunlight shiningred through my closed eyelids woke me. I sat up and blinked. The steady beep of the monitors brought back where I was and what had happened the evening before. Dad’s chest rose and fell, and his eyelids were blue-tinged. I stroked his motionless hand, taking comfort in its warmth.

I stood, stretched, and walked to the window. Outside the hospital, the early-morning rays gilded the rooftops in a soft pink. Cars crawled along the freeway, headlights on. A white BART bus trundled along in the HOV lane, reminding me of where I was expected to be.

I turned my back to the window and shot off a couple of texts to Jackson to let him know what was happening. I sent off another text to Ben to ask him to find a temp to cover for me for the rest of the week. Last night’s surgeon had told me they’d want to monitor Dad for a few days. I eyed the cast on his leg. He’d broken the same one, which, I supposed, was lucky. His good leg would support him through rehab.

My eyes trailed up to his face. Asleep, he looked younger. Except for his white hair and the pallor of his skin, he looked like the dad who’d raised me, who’d held my hand through all my vaccinations, who’d made me chicken soup—from a can, of course—when I was sick, who’d bandaged my scraped knees when I wiped out on my bike. We were quite a pair, alone and broken as we were.

I’d be his good leg for as long as he needed me.

* * *

The beepingof the monitors made me want to shred my itchy skin.

That, or the lack of caffeine.

Each time one of the nurses suggested I take a break, go for a walk, grab a cup of coffee, I’d refused. It’d been my sloppiness, my lack of care, that’d allowed this to happen. Why had I lingered upstairs? Why had I told Sylvia to leave early?

Why did I always let everyone down?

I looked down at my phone for the hundredth time that day. I already had Tyler’s contact information pulled up. My finger hovered over the text icon.I should tell him I’m sorry.

But then what? Assuming he responded, what would I say?

That I wanted to try? How could I, with Dad needing more care?

He deserved more. More than I could give right now.

That I didn’t want to try, then, and he could be free.

The icon blurred on my phone. Damned tears. I blinked them away and rubbed at the one that made a dash for my cheek.

I needed to be strong. For Dad. No distractions.

I tossed my phone into my purse on the windowsill. Outside, the blue shadow of the hospital building stretched across the highway below. Dad had slept all day.

The door banged open, and Jackson’s voice echoed into the room, drowning out the beeps at last.

“Marlee, are you in here?” The second-biggest bouquet I’d ever seen—Cooper’s peonies still held that honor—walked into the room. I could just see Jackson’s eyes and mussed dark hair peeking over the top of the colorful gerbera daisies. Alicia, following behind, shushed him.

Jackson set the flowers on the small table between Dad’s bed and the unoccupied one. A groove of concern divided his eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

Hoping I hadn’t smeared my mascara, I hugged him, filling my nostrils with his familiar scent of soap and leather seats. “I’m fine. And the doctor says he’ll be okay. Though he hasn’t woken up yet.” That was my worry. The last time, after he’d fallen off the ladder, Dad had woken up right after the surgery.

I’d give every romance novel I owned just to see his eyes blink open.

Alicia stepped up, and I hugged my friend. The November chill still clung to her coat, along with the scent of Earl Grey tea. Her slender hands pressed into my back, and I leaned against her.

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