by Melody Anne
Mr. Vincent rests a hand on my shoulder, and I jump. “Here’s your float, sweetheart.”
I force a smile as I thank him, take the Styrofoam cup in his hand, and sip a little. The cool, sweet treat does nothing to quell the sense of foreboding surging through me.
WES SHOVES AN entire brownie into his mouth. Crumbs tumble down his Mad Hatter jacket.
“You know it’s acceptable to take two bites,” I say, dropping a prize into a grinning ballerina’s oversized pillowcase. She twirls in an unsteady pirouette, then dances over to where a new game of bobbing for eyeballs is about to begin. The uneasy feeling in my stomach has dimmed, but it’s there nonetheless. If only my father would pick up the phone.
“Not enough time, Jelly Bean,” he says, licking his thumb. “It’s my turn to be the creature in the green lagoon.” By “green lagoon” he means the dunk tank set up outside the game tent. Someone in the football program came up with the brilliant idea to fill the tank with green slime instead of water. All players and coaches are required to participate.
Annabelle wrinkles her nose, the perfect addition to her Queen of Hearts ensemble. “You better shower after.”
“You know I’m going to do the exact opposite because you said that,” Wes says, stealing the crown out of her wig, then darting away with such speed that it knocks the top hat off his head. The card reading “10/6” floats to the grass.
“You know what happens when the queen loses her temper,” she yells after him, heart wand waving in the air. “Off with your head!”
I roll my eyes. Since last night at Otto’s Corner, Annabelle and Wes have been tight-lipped about the current status of their relationship, and I haven’t asked. I get the impression they’re afraid to jinx what forward progress they’ve made by talking about it. Maybe there’s this unspoken fear, this possibility it could all erode again.
After Wes disappears out of sight, Annabelle straightens her dress and looks at me. “Have you returned Sullivan Grace’s calls yet?”
“What do you think?” I say as I rearrange the cups on the fuzzy caterpillar toss board. The pushy woman has already left numerous messages in the hour I’ve been here. Something about how my presence is needed at an Upper Crust run-through. If only my father could be as persistent.
“You know she won’t stop bothering you until you do,” Annabelle says as a gap-toothed boy dressed as Superman zooms past us, cape billowing behind him, lollipop in hand.
My phone vibrates and Sullivan Grace’s number lights up the screen. “Speak of the devil,” I say. “Can you handle this for a bit? I’ll be right back.”
I walk out of the tent onto the majestic, tree-lined Bishop Boulevard. All around me are children in costumes and face paint lugging bags bursting with candy, jumping in bounce houses, shielding their eyes as they listen to ghost stories. It appears every family within a one-hundred-mile radius decided to partake in Mustang Spook Fest.
“Hello, Ms. Hasell,” I answer, plugging my ear as I cut through a group of kids waiting to enter the haunted house put on by the various fraternities on campus.
“There you are,” she says. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Behavior like this simply won’t suit, Lillie. What did I teach you about manners?”
I sigh, imagining her in Junior League headquarters, sipping tea and eating a scone. “I’ve been a little busy volunteering at—”
“Never mind about that,” she continues. “Now, pay attention. You need to arrive at the Ritz Carlton ballroom promptly at . . .”
She prattles on about the logistics of the Upper Crust run-through as though she hasn’t explained the same instructions in the many voice messages I’ve already received. Contestants are to use the time as an opportunity to familiarize themselves with the setup and smooth out any kinks before the big event. D Magazine will be in attendance, after all.
“Lillie, dear, are you taking notes?”
No. “Yes, Ms. Hasell,” I say with exaggerated cheer as I stroll through the fake cemetery built on the lawn area in SMU’s south quad. Plastic skeletons dangle from trees. Cobwebs with hundreds of tiny spiders cover painted foam gravestones.
“I’d also like to remind you that, as stated in the competition guidelines, no late recipe modifications will be permitted,” she says. “The judges will be observing to ensure all contestants are acting in accordance with the rules.”
Translation: Your father will force-feed tofu down your throat if you show up with that deconstructed strudel nonsense.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
She rambles on for another few minutes. I tune her out. After I disconnect the call, I make my way back to Annabelle and Wes but stop when my cell vibrates again. I swear I’m going to strangle Sullivan Grace with her precious heirloom pearls.
“What?” I snap into the phone.
A throat clears on the other end. “Uh, Lillie, this is Ernie.” There’s a long pause. I can hear him breathing, deep and heavy like his favorite Dutch oven at the diner. “It’s your—” He stops, then starts again. When he speaks, his voice shakes. “It’s Jack.”
The way Ernie says my father’s name crashes into me like a storm-driven wave, strong and fierce. My knees buckle, and I sink to the ground, the foreboding feeling like a current pulling me under. Kids and their parents rush around me, a blur of spinning colors and shapes.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“He collapsed.”
TWENTY
I’M FLOATING OUTSIDE myself. Or watching a stranger. Because the crazy person speeding across town toward Baylor Medical, swerving around cars, blowing red lights, violating all traffic laws, can’t possibly be me.
Panic balloons in my chest. I grip the steering wheel, palms slick with sweat, so tight my knuckles have turned white. I swing my truck onto Gaston Avenue. A forest of stone hospital buildings looms ahead. Following the signs to the ER, I whip into a spot in the parking lot, then dash through the glass double doors that lead to the emergency department.
The visitor waiting area feels calm, as if I’ve entered a Michelin-star restaurant rather than a hospital. I race toward the reception desk where a woman in navy scrubs sits in front of a computer.
“Jackson Turner,” I blurt, the words coming out in a breathless jumble. “He should—”
“A moment please,” she says, her acrylic nails zipping across the keyboard. She peers up at me, her eyes roaming over my Alice costume. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth before it vanishes. Then, as if she’s reading the nutrition facts on a microwave dinner, she rattles off information. My father arrived via ambulance twenty minutes ago and was rushed into surgery. Afterward, he will be moved to recovery for monitoring before being transferred to the ICU. “The doctor will meet with you in the OR waiting room to discuss the status of his condition,” she says, then hands me a map and directs me to a set of double doors adjacent to the reception desk.
That’s it. No further details given. No opportunity to ask questions.
The doors hiss open and dump me into a corridor that cuts down the middle of the emergency room. The smell of disinfectant and body odor surrounds me. My shoes squeak on the floor as I pass a nurses’ station teeming with activity. Patient rooms flank me on both sides. An orderly wheels an empty gurney with rumpled linens and life-support equipment piled on top, sending my heart skittering in my chest.
My phone vibrates as I walk through another set of double doors that open onto a bank of elevators and a minilounge. I fumble around in my dress pocket and pull it out to see Thomas Brandon’s name lighting up the screen. I silence the call, but before I can put the phone away, it buzzes again. My fingers clench around the unforgiving plastic, itching to hurl it against the vending machines.
I punch the elevator’s up button and pace back and forth. A few beats later, the elevator arrives with a whoosh. I dart inside, press the button for the third-floor operating rooms, and collapse against the steel wall. A guy with gauze t
aped to his forehead stands across from me, fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag. A mangled bicycle leans against the handrail beside him.
“Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up,” I mutter, hitting the little button over and over again, as if that will somehow make the elevator climb faster.
“Late for a tea party?” the guy asks.
My eyes narrow. “You’re hilarious. Did you come up with that one all by yourself?” The elevator comes to a halt and the doors slide open. “Happy Halloween,” I toss over my shoulder and step out into the bleach-scented hallway.
In the OR waiting room, I check in with a nurse, who instructs me to take a seat and wait. For how long she doesn’t know.
Seconds tick away, yet time in the waiting room seems frozen. When Wes and Annabelle barrel through the doors hours later it feels as if no time has passed. They’ve changed out of their costumes into regular street clothes.
“Sorry we’re so late, Jelly Bean,” Wes says, engulfing me in a hug. “Coach can be a real jackass sometimes. We got out of there as soon as we could.”
“It’s okay,” I say as Annabelle butts in and wraps an arm around my neck.
“What happened?” she asks. “What’s going on?”
“My father’s in surgery right now. That’s all the information I have.”
For some reason I have an inexplicable urge to see Nick. I peek over Annabelle’s shoulder, hoping his face will appear at any moment. Then I realize he’s probably dealing with patients himself. I bet he doesn’t even know my father is here.
“I brought something for you to change into.” Annabelle grabs the bag resting at her feet and yanks out jeans and a T-shirt. I force a tight smile and wonder if it looks as fake as it feels. She must recognize that I don’t have the energy to do anything other than bite my cuticles raw, because she crams the clothes back into the bag and says, “Or maybe you should stick with what you’re wearing.”
My phone vibrates in my hand.
“Who’s Thomas Brandon?” Annabelle asks, pointing at the screen.
“My boss. This is the third time he’s called.”
“Should you answer it?”
I shake my head and let it go to voicemail. Only he doesn’t leave a message. Instead he calls back again. If it wouldn’t get me escorted out of the building I really would smash my phone into a million pieces. I settle for shutting it off and shoving it into my pocket.
The three of us sink into uncomfortable waiting room chairs, Wes and Annabelle on each side of me, and wait. A sense of exhaustion hangs in the air. Nobody says much except for the hospital staff and an elderly woman fiddling with a container of stirring straws near the complimentary coffee. She chatters away to a man who I assume is her husband. Or maybe she’s babbling to the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling. Perhaps keeping her mouth busy is preventing a flood of emotions from bursting out of her.
Annabelle flips through a gossip magazine, mumbling about some celebrity’s gaudy million-dollar wedding and how she could have planned a more elegant affair for a fraction of the price, while Wes tears off the lip of a Styrofoam cup, dropping it onto the coffee dregs. My eyes stay glued to the doors that lead to the operating rooms until finally they open. Dr. Preston emerges in his scrubs, and I know that the head of cardiac surgery has come to talk to me. All I can think is: Please, God, don’t let my father be dead.
Dr. Preston approaches, a heavy expression on his face. Apart from the creases at the corners of his eyes and the gray in his sideburns, he looks the same as he did five years ago, an older, more refined version of Nick. He even has the same blue eyes and tousled hair as his son.
“Wes. Annabelle,” Dr. Preston says, nodding. “I’d like to speak with Lillie privately for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
Wes squeezes my arm, and Annabelle kisses my cheek. “We’ll be downstairs in the café if you need us,” she says.
Dr. Preston situates himself in the chair beside me, his demeanor stoic—exactly how I remember it. “It’s good to see you again, Lillie. Though I am sorry it has to be under these circumstances. How are you doing?”
My insides twist and my fingers curl around the edge of the seat, bracing myself for the worst kind of news. “Please tell me what happened.”
Dr. Preston clears his throat “Your father suffered a myocardial infarction, which is the technical term for a heart attack, and underwent bypass surgery. Given the severity of his condition, he came through the procedure better than I anticipated.”
I exhale. My father made it through surgery. He’s going to be okay. He’s going to live. “May I see him?”
“Jack is in recovery right now and needs to be alone, but you can visit him later for a few minutes,” Dr. Preston says. “I need you to understand, Lillie, that this is Jack’s second episode in a short period of time. The likelihood of him surviving another one is slim.”
Second episode?
“What are you talking about?”
His brow furrows. “Last year, Jack was diagnosed with unstable angina, or a mild heart attack. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No,” I whisper. Of course he didn’t.
Dr. Preston sighs. “Don’t be too hard on him, Lillie. Sometimes we parents assume to know what’s best for our children and the limits they can handle. No matter how good our intentions, we don’t always get it right.”
I nod, wanting to believe him.
“We were able to treat his condition with medication,” he continues. “I warned Jack then, and again recently, that he needed to keep up with his medications, watch his blood pressure and cholesterol levels, exercise several times a week, and adopt a heart-healthy diet to reduce his chances of suffering something more serious in the future. He has chosen to ignore my advice and is now displaying early signs of congestive heart failure.”
The room spins, a blur of colors and sounds. A prickling sense of unreality crawls its way through me. I take deep breaths, trying to concentrate on something other than the words “congestive heart failure.”
A solid hand rests on my arm. I jump. Dr. Preston has never been one to show me affection, or acknowledgment, really. I was considered a misfit, a distraction for Nick.
I wonder why he is acting so kind toward me now. Maybe his messy divorce somehow softened him, made him more accepting. Or maybe he’s simply playing the part of concerned doctor. Either way, I welcome it.
When I finally speak, my voice sounds as brittle as a fortune cookie, the scrap of paper inside a bad omen. “Is it fatal?”
Dr. Preston studies me. “The course of the disease varies with each individual, so it is difficult to determine the long-term prognosis for any given patient,” he says. “Though I can tell you that if Jack does not significantly alter his lifestyle and follow the regimented treatment plan I have laid out for him, then his condition will turn life threatening, but we’re not going to allow that to happen.” The firmness in his gaze makes me trust that maybe my father has a prayer of beating this.
“Does my father know?”
Nodding, he says, “We discussed it during his most recent appointment when we went over his test results and spoke about the logistics of his upcoming bypass operation.”
I frown. “My father was scheduled for a bypass operation?”
Dr. Preston gives me a confused look. “Yes, Lillie. An X-ray revealed significant blockages in three of four of his coronary arteries. I advised Jack to undergo surgery as soon as possible, to which he agreed. It was scheduled for a little under two weeks from now, though it seems fate had other plans.”
The truth slams into me like another one of my father’s sucker-punch pies. The “emergency” phone call. His ridiculous demands about me managing the diner. The meeting with Roger Stokes and the medical power of attorney. My father’s tired, unkempt appearance and his loud, mucousy coughs.
The signs have been there, shouting at me that this was never about a knee-replacement procedure. Why didn’t I listen better to my instincts?
Two hours later, a nurse is guiding me down a long corridor that stretches in both directions. It seems to go on forever. The hospital is quiet despite the swarm of people bustling around. Even the sounds of my footfalls absorb into the floor.
“Here we go,” the nurse says, pushing open the door to my father’s room. “You have ten minutes, sweetheart. Then you can visit again in the morning. Don’t even consider sleeping in the waiting room. Dr. Preston gave you specific orders to go home and rest.”
Unease churns in my stomach as I step into the sterile, white space. Dr. Preston warned me about what I would encounter when I finally saw my father, but he didn’t prepare me for this.
My father’s skin looks ashen and translucent. Bruises blossom out from the places where tubes enter his body, which appear to be everywhere. There’s one in his nose, providing him oxygen. One inserted into a vein in his left wrist, recording his blood pressure. Another in his right, hydrating him. Several on top of his hands, pumping in heaven knows what. There’s a larger tube in his neck that disappears inside of him. A pair of wires are taped to his chest, connected to the heart monitor hanging near the bed. The slow, staccato beeps of the EKG line and the drip of the IV are all that reassure me that my father is still here.
I walk to the side of his bed and sit on the edge, my father’s leathery hand warm in mine. Brushing feather-light strokes across his palm, I trace over every callus, every scar, every crack.
“Were you ever going to tell me the truth?” My voice is low, steady, even though my insides are roiling. “Or were you going to continue to be evasive and let me think this was all about knee-replacement surgery?” When my father doesn’t answer, anger swells in my veins. My fingers itch to shake him awake, to force him to explain himself. Because this involves me, our family, and yet my father has left me standing on the outside—a mere spectator.
They all have, I realize. Otherwise, why would Nick agree to be a witness on the medical power of attorney? Why would Annabelle and Sullivan Grace be so insistent on me participating in this year’s Upper Crust competition? Why would Wes be hanging around the diner as much as he does when he should be at practice?
