“I’m glad you arrived when you did,” I whispered, forcing the lump in my throat back down. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Of course. Anyone would have done the same.” He sighed, shook his head. “I wish I’d caught the guy, though. I wanted to go after him, but I couldn’t leave you, you know? It’s probably better for him. I’d have beaten him to a pulp.” He exhaled deeply, looking at me with his big green eyes and I dropped my gaze. “The police asked me for his description, but I didn’t see him properly. Do you remember anything?”
“Not much. He wore a black hoodie... I think he had white skin, stubble and definitely needed a toothbrush. Not exactly a lot for them to go on, is it?”
“But you’ll file a report? Which reminds me—” he dug around in his pocket and pulled out a business card “—these are the detective’s contact details, although he said he’d be in touch. Hopefully with what you tell them they’ll be able to catch the guy.”
“I doubt it. I mean, I’m another statistic, right?” My laugh sounded false, and the pressure in the back of my head made me stop. Without warning, a sob escaped my lips, followed by a steady trickle of tears, which refused to slow even as I squeezed my eyes shut to keep them in.
“Hey,” I heard Lewis say as he placed his hand over mine again, his touch warm and reassuring. “You’re safe now, Eleanor, I promise.” He waited until I opened my eyes again, and then reached for a chair, pulled it over and sat down. “Have you spoken to your folks?”
“My parents? No, I—”
“They didn’t call? The super gave me your emergency contacts. Your dad didn’t answer but I left a message on his voice mail, and on your mom’s, too. I told them where you were. I can check with the nurse if—”
“No, you don’t need to,” I whispered.
“I hope I didn’t get the wrong number. Your mom’s name is Sylvia, right?”
“Yes,” I mumbled. I’d forgotten I’d added her as another contact because there wasn’t anyone else, and I never thought she’d be called. Luckily I’d only been bumped on the head—I’d have to be missing all four limbs before she’d make an appearance. I sat up. “I need to call my dad. I don’t have my phone or my wallet, and he’s—”
“Here, use mine.” He dug around the back pocket of his jeans, and when he held his cell out to me, it could’ve been a toy nestled in the palm of a giant’s hand. “You didn’t have a bag with you, either. Was it stolen? Can you remember?” When I shook my head, he said, “We should cancel your credit cards and have your locks changed, too, if your keys—”
“No, there’s no need,” I said as a pleasant warmth spread throughout my chest. He’d said we, as if we were in this together somehow. “I forgot my bag at the hospice.”
“Hospice?” Lewis’s brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”
I swallowed hard and exhaled quietly, trying to ensure that when I spoke, my words would be steady enough for Lewis to understand. “It’s my dad. He has pancreatic cancer—”
“God, I’m so sorry.”
“—and, uh, he wasn’t doing well when I left last night. I need to find out what’s going on. I have to call. To make sure he’s okay.”
“Which hospice?”
“Monroe. It’s in Pleasantdale.”
He looked it up and passed the phone to me. “Take your time,” he said, standing up. He gave me a quick glance and an encouraging nod as he moved to the door. “I’ll be right outside.”
I clutched the phone, preparing myself for what I’d say to Dad. First, I’d tell him I loved him, I didn’t care about him not being my biological father, it didn’t matter one bit. Then I’d apologize, say I was so, so sorry I’d left. I’d been selfish, stupid. He’d say, Freckles, it’s fine, nothing to forgive. The thought made my chest expand as I hit Dial.
“Good morning, Monroe Hospice, how may I direct your call?” Brenda the receptionist’s voice was a true balm for the soul. She’d given me a hug the first day I’d visited Dad. Held me after I’d walked out of the elevator where I’d let go of the emotions I’d kept inside since I’d arrived an hour earlier. Not once did she complain or try to pull away as I clung to her, not even when a damp patch of my tears soaked into her soft yellow cashmere sweater.
“Hi, Brenda. It’s Eleanor Hardwicke.” I pressed Lewis’s phone against my ear, hoping the whooshing in my head would stop soon.
“Eleanor...” Brenda’s voice became gentler still. “How are you?”
“Not great, to be honest. Can I please speak to Dad? Is he awake?”
Her silence lasted forever. With every passing nanosecond, it squeezed my gut a little bit more before going for my lungs, wrapping itself around them. “Brenda? Can you put me through to his room?”
“I’m so sorry, Eleanor,” she whispered, and instead of my blood running cold, it froze solid in my veins. “I’m afraid your father passed away last night.”
CHAPTER SIX
LEWIS’S PHONE SLIPPED FROM my fingers and clattered to the floor. My little remaining strength evaporated, turning my voice into a tiny, inconsequential noise when I tried to speak. I put my head back and let out a scream that sounded closer to the noise a wounded animal might make.
Within a heartbeat, Lewis appeared in the doorway. “Eleanor?” He saw the expression on my face, took three steps in my direction, his eyes widening. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“My dad. He...he’s...” The word dead wouldn’t come out, I couldn’t push it past my lips. Brenda had got it wrong, mistaken me for someone else because Dad wasn’t gone. Not now. Not like this. Not after the way I’d spoken to him and walked away.
“Jesus. I’m so, so sorry,” Lewis whispered. “When did it happen? Last night?”
As I nodded, he sat on the side of the bed and held out his arms. I collapsed against his chest, let him pull me against him as I sobbed.
“He can’t be,” I said, crying louder still, and when the reality of the situation slammed into me, the fact I’d never see Dad again, I let out another wail. “He was supposed to have four months. It’s what they told him. Four months. We’re not even halfway there.” I pushed Lewis away. “Why did he wait so long before going to the doctor? Why? It’s not fair, it’s not fair.”
Nurse Miranda must’ve heard the commotion because she rushed into the room. “My goodness, what’s going on in here? Is everything all right?”
“Her father passed away,” Lewis said in a low voice. He hadn’t moved, and I sank against him again, bunching his shirt beneath my fingers, hoping he could stop me from feeling as if I was suffocating in that godforsaken hospital bed.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Nurse Miranda’s face filled with pity as she pressed one hand to her chest. “I’ll give you some time and come back in a while, okay? Can I get you anything?”
When I didn’t answer, Lewis shook his head, and the door closed behind her. It took a long while for my tears to stop, but when no more came, Lewis helped me lie back down and handed me a tissue.
“What can I do?” he said. “How can I help?”
The compassion in his eyes, the fact this quasi stranger would offer any kind of assistance threatened to set me off into a blubbering mess again. It had been such a long time since anyone but Dad had showed me affection, I’d all but forgotten what it felt like.
“Is there someone I can call?” he said, retrieving his phone from the floor. “Shall I try your mom again? Maybe this is why she hasn’t contacted you? God, she must be devastated.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed. “Devastation isn’t in my mother’s range of emotions,” I said, and Lewis raised his eyebrows. “They’ve been divorced for almost twenty years and... Let’s just say it’s always been complicated between her and me.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Families can be tough. What about a brother? A sister?”
“Amy lives in L
A. We rarely speak.”
“Right. Look, are you sure you don’t want to call your mom?”
Lewis had no idea what I’d meant by things being complicated. I knew my mother hadn’t gone to see Dad out of concern for his health last night, that much had been evident from the conversation I’d overheard. She’d tried to make him change his will, leave the little he had to Amy. Now I’d taken the possibility away from my sister, and even through the fresh fog of grief, I could clearly see another reason for them to despise me. I remembered my mother’s words about how I’d brought on Dad’s collapse. She was right, it had been my fault. He’d died last night because of me. She’d never let me forget it. She didn’t need to. I’d never forgive myself.
“I don’t want to talk to her,” I whispered.
“What about your boyfriend?” Lewis said. “Or a girlfriend, maybe? There must be someone who can be with you. You shouldn’t be alone, not after what’s happened.”
I looked away, didn’t want to say there was no one to call. I’d only had a handful of relationships—all of which ended in disaster—and never had many friends. Telling him would have meant admitting how isolated I’d become, how alone I felt, despite trying to convince myself otherwise. It was of my own doing, I knew. I’d been hurt too many times, put down and let down far too often. Being alone was easier. Usually easier, but only because I’d had Dad.
Before I could speak, the door opened and a woman in a white overcoat walked in. A red stethoscope hung around her neck and she carried a chart of some sort under her arm. She came over to the bed and shook my hand, her long fingers cold as Popsicles, and in direct contradiction with the warm smile on her face.
“Good morning, Ms. Hardwicke,” she said with a hint of an accent. “I’m Dr. Chang. Miranda told me about your father. My deepest sympathies.” She paused, folded her arms across her chest and looked down at me. I fought the urge to cry again as I wished I could disappear, fade away to nothing—it would be penance for hurting Dad. I didn’t deserve Dr. Chang’s condolences, didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathies.
“I’ve got good news,” she said, oblivious to the turmoil going on inside me. “The blow to your head was quite severe and it had us worried, but your CT scan is clear. No signs of internal bleeding or cranial fractures. Miranda told me you woke up a few times during the night.”
“I don’t remember,” I said. “Not until this morning.”
“But it’s still great news, isn’t it?” Lewis said, squeezing my hand.
“Great news indeed,” Dr. Chang replied.
“When can I leave?” I whispered. “I want to go home.”
“Ah, not quite yet.” Dr. Chang shook her head. “I want to keep you in for observation for at least twenty-four hours, preferably until tomorrow morning. Get plenty of rest until then. Let us take care of you, okay?”
“Okay,” I mumbled, held still as she went through her notes, examined my head, my eyes, asked me questions about headaches and vision and nausea. I lied, told her there was no pain, no blurriness, no queasiness. I’d had a concussion at school once, I knew what she was looking for. As soon as she and Nurse Miranda left, I pushed away the covers, but yanked them swiftly back up. My clothes had been removed at some point, and I was now dressed in nothing but a hospital gown with a gaping hole at the back.
“What are you doing?” Lewis put his hand on mine as I reached for the IV needle in my arm. “Stop. You heard what she said. You have to rest.”
“I can’t.” I tried to push him away but he held firm. “I want to see my dad. I have to get to the hospice. I need to—”
“I get it, I do,” Lewis said, letting go.
“Do you?” I snapped, carefully pulling the IV out of my arm and pushing down hard to stop the blood. “Because I can’t afford what they’ll charge me for being here, either. I don’t have insurance. I have to get out of here.”
“But you were hurt. I saw it and it scared the living daylights out of me. I thought he’d... I thought you’d...” He took a deep breath. “You can’t leave.”
“Yes, I can.” Anger rose inside me. Who the hell did he think he was? I’d known him all of five minutes, really, and he had some kind of savior complex going on? I didn’t need saving. “What are you going to do? Stop me?”
He must have seen the flash of fury in my eyes because he raised his hands, palms turned outward, got up and took a step back. “No, of course not,” he said gently. “But if you insist on leaving, at least tell me how you’ll get to the hospice.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Didn’t you say your bag’s there? With your wallet and phone?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “It’s settled then. I’ll take you.”
“You don’t need to,” I spat, my voice harsh, ungrateful, too reminiscent of my mother’s, which was no surprise really, considering she constantly lived in my head.
“Please, Eleanor. It’s your decision, but listen to the doctor. She said you’re supposed to be under observation. It’s not smart to leave the hospital in the first place, but going all the way to Pleasantdale on your own...?” He brushed his hair off his face, shook his head. “Let me make sure you get there safely, please? And then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”
I wanted to argue but knew Lewis was right. Walking to the hospice with the pounding in my head would be akin to riding his green bicycle through a pool of molasses with my feet tied together. “Fine,” I said with a curt nod. “Fine.”
“I’d better track down the doctor right away.” Lewis headed for the door. “They’ll probably want you to sign something. You know, for liability reasons, or whatever.”
After he disappeared from the room, I swung my legs over and put my feet on the cold floor, reached for the back of the chair to stop the room from spinning. When I was sure I wouldn’t pass out or empty my guts, I searched for my clothes, found them folded up and stored away in a plastic bag in the closet, my shoes and jacket underneath. I gathered up my things, tried to ignore the shaking of my hands as I took slow steps to the bathroom.
I winced when the fluorescent lights came on, and, once I’d pulled on my clothes, dared to take a quick peek in the mirror. A wicked bruise—already a frightening shade of deep blue and purple—stretched across the left side of my temple and almost to the bottom of my cheek. The dark circles under my eyes blended with the hue of the bruise, making the rest of my skin appear paler than flour. Meanwhile, my hair had tangled itself into a cross between a bird’s nest and a tumbleweed and had piled itself on top of my head.
Lowering my gaze, I splashed water onto my face before running a hand over the back of my head, gently touching the tender golf ball–size lump protruding from my skull. As I glanced at myself in the mirror again, the voice inside me began to whisper.
Dad’s dead. He’s dead. It’s your fault. Your fault, you pathetic loser.
I exhaled, pushing the air from my lungs to drown out the words, but all it did was make more room for the guilt that had already taken hold, let it burrow deeper inside me, feelings I knew would be silenced for even a moment if only I had something to eat. I returned to the room, where Lewis stood by the bed, his arms crossed.
“Can I talk you out of this?” he said.
“No.” I slipped on my sneakers.
“At least let me try?”
I didn’t answer and headed for the door. Nurse Miranda wasn’t impressed with my decision to leave, either, sighing as I completed and signed the necessary Against Medical Advice forms without bothering to read them through.
“You bring her back if she passes out, has blurred vision or complains of headaches, all right?” she told Lewis. “Same if she throws up, has slurred speech, numbness of any kind or anything that looks even remotely like a seizure. Get her to a doctor immediately.”
After Lewis promised he would, he walked me to the entrance, asking half a
dozen times if I was okay, if we should slow down, if I needed a rest. I almost told him to stop fussing, I was a grown woman, and he should let me be, but kept quiet. Dad always told me I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, let alone take it behind the barn and shoot it, and most of the time his advice had been sound. I forced myself to stop thinking about Dad, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other without letting Lewis see how unsteady I was.
“You’re sure I can’t take you home?” he said, zipping up his jacket when we got outside. “I can collect your stuff from the hospice later.”
I shook my head. “I have to do this.”
He nodded, a grim look on his face. “I understand. I’ll find us a cab.”
My heart made its way into my throat and stayed there, a giant, uncomfortable lump I couldn’t swallow or dislodge. The spiteful voice in my head started whispering again, and this time I couldn’t make it stop.
You have nobody left. You’re alone now. All alone. And it’s what you deserve.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WE SAT IN SILENCE for most of the drive. Lewis glanced at me on a regular basis and I was grateful for the dark and gloomy weather. Brighter skies would’ve caused me to shut my eyes, and that might have been enough for Lewis to tell the driver to take us back to hospital.
As I stared out of the window, I caught sight of a couple with matching blue-and-white-striped bobble hats perched atop their heads kissing in a doorway, arms wrapped around each other as if it were the end of the world. I wished I had my camera as I imagined them planning Thanksgiving and Christmas, debating whose family to visit first, what gifts to buy and for whom, and which explosive subjects were best avoided over dinner. I looked at my hands folded in my lap, picked at a hangnail. The holidays weren’t important anymore. With Dad gone, there was nothing left to celebrate.
From nowhere, my next thoughts went to my biological father, and that he was out there somewhere.
I pushed the idea away. I would not think about him. I would not. But all that did was send my mind racing back to Dad and the fact he was dead. Snatched away even earlier than we’d thought. It was enough to make me want to scream, pound my fists against the doors of the taxi, smash the windows with my bare hands. My chest rose and fell more quickly as my breath became shallow, and when I sensed Lewis’s eyes on me again, I seized the opportunity to start a conversation, to talk about anything—preferably a topic as bland as three-week-old vanilla pudding—in the hope it would distract and calm me somehow.
Sister Dear Page 4
