Page 18 of Don't Call Me Daddy
Adrenaline floods through my system as I maneuver my little car through the town’s two-lane streets. When we come to a Stop sign, I turn left on a one-way in the wrong direction.
“You’re going the wrong way!” he yells before gripping the oh-shit handle with a white-knuckled grip.
“Just for a sec.” I turn into an alleyway, weaving around dumpsters and piles of crates like a street racer fleeing from the police. My heart kicks up a beat as panic rises in my chest.
“Let me out! You’re going to get us killed.” He braces himself before going into another coughing fit and wincing.
“Just hang on. We’re almost there.” I whip the car left across two lanes of traffic and straighten out just as someone behind me lays on their horn. I wave an apology.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me?”
I ignore him as I ramp over a speed bump and fly into the hospital parking lot, straight into one of the several empty handicapped spots right by the front door.
“You can’t park here. This is a handicapped spot,” he says, shaking his head.
I shrug. “There are plenty of them. Besides, this is an emergency. I’m sure they’ll understand. Now, let’s go.”
He starts to protest, but another wave of coughing has him too winded to argue. I don’t know what’s going on with this guy, but I know one thing: I can’t sit back and not help him.
Especially after what he did for me.
I hate hospitals. I hate the overly sterile smell. I hate the way it makes my throat burn. I hate the fluorescent lights that illuminate the stark white hallways and make you feel dizzy. I hate the noises of machines beeping and Velcro from blood pressure cuffs. I hate the palpable mixture of fear and hope mingling in the air as people wait to find out the answer to the very same question—Will they be all right?
I hate the cracked plastic seat cushions that pinch my legs as I squirm, watching the minutes on the clock tick by.
And I especially hate the way time seems to slow down and the way I haven’t been able to take a full breath since I walked through those sliding glass doors.
So, why am I still sitting here, six hours later, waiting to hear about a stranger I hardly know?
I wish I knew myself.
But I don’t know if I could leave if I tried, it’s like I’m frozen in place by a magnet.
It’s pathetic really … or maybe it’s a trauma response left over from all the times I did this exact same thing when my sister got sick.
All I know is, I haven’t been that afraid in a very long time.
After Fern died, I didn’t think it was possible to be afraid. Living through your worst nightmare does that to you. You realize there’s nothing else that can be taken away.
I certainly don’t plan on tempting fate again. It’s why I don’t do relationships and I’m not afraid of change. I don’t stay in the same place very long or even the same job. I don’t have close friends. I’m the most extroverted loner to ever live, and that’s exactly the way I like it.
The sliding doors open, sending a gush of hot air swirling around the too-cold waiting room. The warm air soothes my chill-bump-covered skin like a soft blanket straight out of the dryer. I look up to see a group of people walking in, all wearing the familiar look of worry.
My eyes land on the only woman in the group. She’s old enough to be my mother, maybe even my grandmother, not that she looks it. Rather, her platinum-white hair is cut into a stylish bob, and she’s dressed cooler than any older woman I’ve ever seen with wide-legged trouser pants and a denim sleeveless top tucked into it.
She’s cute, and there’s something about her vibe that makes me instantly like her—not that she needs my approval but, hey, I’m bored. What else am I supposed to be doing while I wait to hear if my grumpy stranger is okay?
My eyes catch on the book she’s holding, and a strange sense of recognition comes over me. Then, it clicks. It’s been a long time, but I remember that book. Fern used to be obsessed with it.
What are the chances that more than one person shares my sister’s obsession with this Phantom creature?
Maybe it’s the triggering hospital noises, but suddenly, I feel like I need to talk to her, to tell her that my sister also loved those books. I don’t know why, but I need to tell this kind-looking woman about my sister.
I walk up to her and clear my throat.
“Excuse me. I’m so sorry. I hate to bother you, but are you … I noticed the book you were reading and thought,What a coincidence. My sister used to love that series?—”
She spins to face me, and I’m struck by her mysterious forest-green eyes, the beautiful smile lines that frame them, and the familiar shape of her sharp nose. She’s beautiful and somehow so familiar …
