Page 85 of Kiss Away Your Pain (Wounded Hearts 2)

Epinephrine pumping, fast and furious, through my veins, I jump in my car and head north. The first thing I do is call to reschedule the shoot I’m supposed to do on Monday, begging for forgiveness. Thankfully, it’s a client I’ve worked with many times before and they’re graciously understanding.

The second thing I do is call Destiny to let her know about what happened with Enzo and that I’m driving to the hospital to see what’s going on with my dad.

She, of course, tries to encourage me and tell me it doesn’t have to be over if I don’t want it to be. But I can’t disagree with anything he said. It was all true and warranted. The fucked-upness I’m in right now? That wouldn’t be fair for me to drag him into if I can’t give myself, my whole self, to him. And I care about him too much to do that to him.

Hours of windshield time still ahead of me, I search my heart, with Enzo pervading every thought.

Around ten o’clock that night, I enter the emergency room. A nurse points me to curtain number three.

I push back the thick, blue-fabric curtain. Dad’s eyes are closed, his hair grayer than I remember, his body frail beneath the cotton gown and thin, white hospital blanket. I stare at him, an ache throbs deep in my racing heart.Please don’t leave me too.

Closing the curtain, I try to quietly drag a chair from the corner of the room over to his bedside. The drag is louder than I expected and he stirs.

His eyes blink sluggishly open. “Candi, what’re you doing here? They didn’t have to call you.” His groggy words strain out as he tries to sit up and he ends up leaning back against the inclined mattress.

“I came as soon as the doctor called. Do they know what’s wrong yet?”

“I’m fine. They didn’t need to bother you. I just hurt my wrist a little is all.” He touches his right arm that’s in a navy sling.

“They said you hit your head too.”Is he brushing this off so I’ll leave?

He reaches behind his head. “Just a little bump. It doesn’t even hurt.”

Just then, a doctor comes in, holding a clipboard. “Mr. Gamal. I have good news for you. Your CAT scan is normal. I see nothing to be concerned about. And there are no broken bones, but you have a very bad sprain of your right wrist.”

I heave a sigh of relief, drawing the doctor’s eyes.

“This is my daughter, Candice.” A weak smile spreads his cheeks.

“Nice to meet you, Candice. We’ll get some paperwork together and then you can take your dad home. I hear you drove in from out of town. Will you be able to stay with him tonight?”

“Yes, of course. That’s what I planned on. I can stay a few days if I need to.”

“Good. If anything seems off, you bring him right back here to me.” His encouraging, friendly tone eases me.

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

“Okay, let’s get you out of here. Except for us doctors and nurses, no one wants to be in a hospital.” His smile is warm and reassuring.

The nurse who checks us out gives us instructions for him to take it easy for the next few weeks and not doing anything strenuous that might delay the healing of his wrist. I pull my car around to pick him up and help him get in.

“Thank you for coming all this way. I’m sorry they bothered you.” I can’t tell if he thinks he’s being a burden or he doesn’t want me here.

“It’s no bother, Dad.” I look over at him. The strong, strapping, bullheaded man I knew growing up seems so meek and timid. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him. That’s on me.

I get him home and settled into bed. Then I go to my childhood bedroom, nostalgia wrapping around me as I look at my walls that are adorned with pictures I’d taken as a young, budding photographer. He hasn’t changed anything since Mom passed.

I get washed up for bed then peel back my ruffled, lavender, twin comforter and slide between my purple butterfly sheets. Tucking myself beneath the covers, I’m too tired to cry and sleep takes me.

The night was restless as I woke every few hours, my mind reeling. Getting up before Dad, I make us coffee and get out mugs, my favorite purple butterfly mug is still in the cabinet. Looking around the kitchen and in the refrigerator, I don’t see much food. Though I suck at cooking, I’m going to take him to the grocery store today and see what meals I can make for him to freeze and easily heat up over the next few weeks while his wrist heals. It’s the least I can do.

Though he continues to reiterate that he’s fine and doesn’t need help and doesn’t want to bother me, he agrees to go to the store with me and let me cook some meals for him. While he rests and watches TV, I try my hardest to cook half-decent meals, making him lasagna, spaghetti and meatballs, and stuffed shells. I’d picked up some containers at the store and prepare single servings so all he has to do is thaw them out and heat them up.

Lasagna being the last dish I made, I slice it up for us for dinner. Sitting at the aging walnut dining table, him at the head, me to his left, Mom’s chair empty to his right, we eat quietly. I ask how his wrist is feeling and he says it’s fine. Awkward silences still the air.

After dinner, I do the dishes and clean up the kitchen from my day of possibly-awful cooking. Then I join him in the living room, sitting on the gold, blue, and ivory floral-patterned sofa that Mom loved, curling my legs up onto the cushion.

He gets up from his worn-out blue recliner that matches the blue in the sofa and walks over to the bookcase along the wall to the left of the TV stand. Crouching down, he pulls out a large, tattered book and comes to sit next to me on the sofa.

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