Page 53 of Over My Dead Boss
He nods. “I am not going to sugarcoat it, Miss Ray. It doesn’t look good and I would be lying if I told you to keep up morale and hope for the best. There have been instances where patients awoke from a coma due to external stimuli, such as voices, music, smells, but that too, is statistically unlikely.”
I thank the doctor and sink back into my chair once he is gone, the machine next to us endlessly trudging on.My dad’s hand is a little cold to the touch, so I cover him with a blanket and just stare at him while the whole world feels like it’s slowly crumbling in on itself.
“I don’t think it’s time yet,” I finally say, trying to get him to listen to me, to hear my voice, and to keep me from freaking out about the prospect of losing him. “You haven’t read my new book yet and I haven’t even told you about this guy I’ve been seeing.” My tear ducts seem to have recuperated and send more drops down my cheek. Dad still doesn’t move. “Yeah, I understand. We don’t have to talk about it right now. I’ll just tell you when you wake up.” I reach for my bag and get my laptop out. “This is the first draft. It’s not finished yet, so please take some mental notes along the way about what I should improve, ok?”
I read chapter by chapter, making up funny voices for my characters, singing songs that play in the background, hoping that it could help somehow. Mom returns during the third chapter and listens along as well, asking a question here and there. We spend the entire day like this, only interrupted by bathroom breaks and nurses checking in. When I finish the book, it is already afternoon and my stomach is growling. “I mean, I didn’t expect standing ovations,” I say as I poke my dad in his arm. “But a little more enthusiasm would be appreciated.”
My mom smiles at us from the side, still holding his hand tight.
“Alright, well,” I get up and put my shoes back on, “I’ll go get us some food because I’m starving. Don’t go anywhere, ok?”
“Very funny.” My mom gives me a tired smile and waves me off.
As soon as I am out in the hallway, I call Sienna.
32
“Ihope you’re calling to tell me you have shipped my copy of his newest book.” Sienna feigns sulkiness on the other end of the line.
“Not quite,” I say and slowly stroll towards the cafeteria. “It’s my dad. He’s in the hospital and we’re not sure if he’s going to make it.”
“Oh, no, Olivia. I am so sorry. That’s terrible. Are you with him?”
“Yeah,” the sickening smell of hospital room, turns to the appalling smell of hospital food, “Phoenix put me on a private plane last night. I got here within two or three hours.”
“Boy, it’s convenient to have a billionaire boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. Besides, we’re not seeing each other anymore. We were never seeing each other in the first place.” I move the phone from my right to my left hand and rub my sore neck. “I have to come back to the city. Isabella requires my presence at the office, apparently. But, I’m trying not to think about that. I’m gonna stay here for now and hope dad will wake up.”
“I’ll pack the chairman now and we’ll be with you tonight,” my best friend says, and once again reminds me why she is indeed my best friend.
“No, Sienna. Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing you can do here, anyway. You can’t skip work and I’m sure the chairman would not appreciate a six-hour bus and train ride. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Until then, just take care of the little rebel and yourself. Oh, and do the laundry. You’ll need clothes once I am back.”
I take some soup and fruit to the room where dad is still laying unconscious. Mom and I finish the food and I try hard to keep her positive. We’re both aware of the situation, but I can’t afford a mental breakdown from my mom right now, so I try to keep her distracted as much as that is possible in such a situation. I also take care of all the paperwork for the hospital, help her call in sick at her job, and make sure she has everything she needs to stay the night.
“Thank you, honey. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
We hug, I kiss dad goodbye and tell mom to call me if anything happens. Then I head home to get some sleep. When I exit the hospital and look for a cab, a black car pulls up right in front of me. The driver gets out and opens the door to the back.
“Mr. Cyrus instructed me to wait for you, Miss Ray. Where should I take you?”
I am too tired to argue that I don’t need any help. Instead, I just get in the car and give him the address of my parents. The driver wakes me up ten minutes later, when we make it home. Using up the last bit of energy, I thank him, tell him I won’t need his services anymore, drag myself inside and fall asleep as soon as my body hits the mattress.
I wake up when I can’t breathe properly. A nightmare. The first I have had in quite some time. Someone is sitting on my chest, not allowing me to breathe. I shoot up in bed, cough and gasp for air. The sun is about to rise, the first rays of light on the horizon. The four or five hours of sleep I’ve had aren’t nearly enough, but I don’t have any time to waste. So I check my phone to see if there’s a missed call from my mom and am relieved when I find none. The shower is cold and cruel and reminds me of Phoenix’s abs. Another thirty minutes of cold water would be expedient, but I have no time to lose.
When I get back to the hospital, things are more or less unchanged. Dad is still in a coma, but stable. Mom is worried sick and I try to hunt down a doctor or someone who can give us an update. But, it being the weekend, there is no one to be found with any real information.
We try playing some of dad’s favorite music, which means a lot of Weird Al, jingles from old TV ads, and numerous soundtracks to Monty Python movies. Mom rubs her perfume all over him, making the hospital room smell less like hospital and a little more like a brothel, and we continue to exchange stories about dad for hours on end. In the late evening, I send mom home to get some sleep while I remain behind. The ICU is quiet that night, and apart from the ventilator, the only noise comes from a brewing storm in the distance.
“Alright, dad. This will have to stay between us, ok?” I hit record on a voice memo and open my camera roll. “I kinda took this from a guy that I like without permission, but with good intentions, and I hope he won’t mind.” The letters are hard to decipher, but I do my best. “Dear Phoenix, I am currently somewhere in Switzerland while you are at university back in the states, or so I hope. God knows I have been up to some very dubious things during my time at college, but I hope you will do better than I did. I still remember that one time, probably 25 years ago, where me and a friend of mine deemed it appropriate to build paper airplanes in an engineering class. It made perfect sense, it being an engineering class after all. By which I mean it was just too boring to pay attention. Anyway, Jack and I did our best crafting our aircrafts. His was a rather straightforward pointy design, whereas I went for a little more flair with two pairs of wings (including winglets) and unnecessary flaps. We waited for the right moment when our professor would turn his back to us, drawing some incomprehensible diagrams on the blackboard, and then launched our aeroplanes into the void to see whose would go farther. Mine did a wonderful ascend, before spiraling back down in circles and finally landing behind us. Jack’s plane was of better quality. He threw it at a 45-degree angle up into the air, allowing it to sail smoothly across the lecture hall and the unsuspecting people down below. By then, a few of our fellow students had noticed what we were up to and observed its progress, accompanying it with slight murmurs. Eventually, it, little by little, lost elevation and… I know what you’re thinking: that it hit our professor, but that wasn’t so. Instead, it lost more and more speed on its way down and headed for the students in the front rows who were diligently taking notes, unaware of our poppycock. More specifically, the plane targeted one girl that had a thick bun on her head (the hairstyle, I mean). Finally, the airplane stuck the landing (literally), ever so softly and unnoticed, right in her hair. The class erupted in applause and laughter, which terribly confused our dear professor. May he rest in peace.
And that, my dear son, is how I met your mother. Of course, she wasn’t the girl who was assaulted by our paper plane, but the girl sitting behind me. Your mom had picked up my poor excuse of an aeroplane, crumbled it into a ball and thrown it at my head. When I picked up the ball of paper, I saw that she had written something on it: Here; I improved your design. Maybe you ought to pay some attention in class to improve your engineering skills. Nora.”Adorable,I think and really understand where Phoenix got it from. “Anyway, the moral of the story is: don’t do drugs, do paper airplanes instead (I think. Maybe there is a better moral here, but if there is, then I don’t know it.).”
As I continue to record Mr. Cyrus’s diary, I can’t help but notice all the similarities between him and his son. He, too, seems like a big old softy, hiding underneath a layer of ice, and I wish I could have met him in person when he was still alive.
“Dear Phoenix, it’s April 1st, your birthday. Your thirty-third birthday, to be more precise. I know our relationship hasn’t always been easy, but you can’t imagine how incredibly proud of you I am. I think you know better than anyone else that I’ve had a lot of expectations for you. Expectations that you didn’t fulfill. And I know, for the longest time, it must have felt like I was disappointed or angry with you because of it, and for that I want to apologize. I think in my old age, I have finally learned that following in my footsteps wouldn’t have made you the person I wanted you to become. Instead, you have chosen your own path, you have done what you thought was right, made decisions that bring you happiness and I now realize that that is exactly who you are supposed to be, who I want you to be. Someone who can pave his own way, who can make his own luck despite the obstacles and adversities thrown his way, even from his own father.” I look up to my dad and feel lucky that we’ve had as much time together as we did. “So, thank you, son, for teaching me. Thank you for being who you are and thank you for not hating me, even though you probably have every right. Your mother tells me your second novel is about to be published and I can’t wait to read it. I’m hoping that this one is a cheesy rom-com. I am a sucker for a good happy ending, and I sincerely hope that you will eventually get the happiest of all. From the bottom of my heart, happy birthday, son.” I shed a tear and press pause on the recording.
Luckily, not all his entries are as emotional as this one. They also include: “Don’t forget to wash your rice three times. You really want to get rid of all the starch.”, “Condoms are cheaper than babies (even though babies have better resale value)”, and “It's cheaper to have the helicopter pick you up from the bar than it is to get a DUI.”
