You know what a great way to keep someone from panicking is? Not saying “don’t panic” to them. Because that will make them panic. My hands start shaking.
“Wait—what’s wrong?” I ask, instantly terrified.
“There was a major demonstration today, at the Parliament. You knew about it maybe, yes?”
“Of course,” I blurt impatiently. “My dad is covering it for his story; he has an interview with . . .” I put the pieces together. “Oh, no.”
“Someone brought tear gas. Your father . . . Well, the details don’t matter. There was a riot, things got violent, and he was caught in the middle when things got very bad.”
I feel my chest caving in on itself, and I can’t get any air into my lungs. Tears roll down my face and my throat is on fire. I grip my legs, trying not to fall out of the chair.
“Zona, please don’t panic—he’s alive! Please, I need you to listen. Can you do that?” Mr. Pelidis waves his hand; I realize he’s signaled his secretary to bring me a cup of water, which I take but can’t drink.
“He is at the hospital. He was trampled and they know his leg is broken and they think his spleen has ruptured. He is in surgery and will be there for several hours. He—”
Now that I know he’s alive—that I’m not being told I’m an orphan by a man whose first name I don’t even know—I manage to breathe. And I’m sobbing.
I’m sobbing all the tears I never cried for my mom, I’m dropping the cup of water and only sort of feeling the wetness as it splashes against my legs, I’m falling into my own lap and heaving giant gulps of noisy air into my body.
I can’t stop sobbing, even though I can tell that Mr. Pelidis is trying to tell me more things that are probably important in a calm voice he probably learned at guidance counselor college.
And then, suddenly, I can stop. I take a big, difficult breath, I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, and I focus.
He’s alive, I remind myself. You are not all alone. He’s alive, and this man is trying to help you. So listen to him.
“Zona. Zona, okay. Okay, good. So, your father, he is at the hospital across town. Miss Papadakis has offered to drive you there.” His secretary puts her hand on my shoulder; I’m too upset and simultaneously weirdly calm to even be embarrassed about the fact that she was probably standing there during my meltdown. “So you can go right now, okay?” Mr. Pelidis stands awkwardly.
I wipe my face again and stand up, too, but my legs are shaky and it takes me a second before I can follow them out of the office.
I don’t even stop at my locker. I follow Miss Papadakis down the hall and out the door. I see Betony outside our math classroom holding the bathroom pass, obviously waiting to see what happened. She starts to come over when she sees my red, blotchy face. I shake my head at her, and then Miss Papadakis and I are outside.
In the car, I send a short group text to my GIS friends so they don’t think I’ve been hauled off to jail. Then I ask Miss Papadakis, “How did the hospital know where I was? Was he . . . conscious? Was he in pain?” I feel the tears starting again and I swallow hard to try to keep it together.
“He told them your name and your school before surgery. I’m sure he’s in very good hands, Zona, okay?” she says. “Now, who can we call to meet you at the hospital?”
I have no idea how to answer this question. Dad’s my legal guardian. What if they won’t let me see him? What about paying for the surgery and everything else—I don’t know anything about our health insurance or . . . do they even take health insurance in Greece? Is it free here? Is it only free for Greek citizens?
I take a deep breath, trying not to panic. “I can call my cousin,” I say, bringing up Yiota’s number. At the very least she might know how to help.
Miss Papadakis pulls into the parking lot while the phone is ringing. I get Yiota’s voice mail. I send a text saying it’s an emergency, hoping she’s just in class or something and will step out to take the call. I try again as we cross the parking lot, getting closer to the doors and to my dad.
Yiota picks up, sounding out of breath. “Zona, are you okay? Sorry, I was—you guys, greekgreekgreekgreek!—Sorry, Zona, I’m just with some friends and . . . Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital,” I gasp with relief. My voice breaks and the tears start again, but I fight to get my words out. “My dad was at the riot, he’s in surgery, and I . . . I don’t know what to do. Can you come?”
I hear Yiota yelling in Greek to her friends, who are laughing and playing music in the background. She comes back to the phone. “Of course, Zona—please, do not worry, yes? At which hospital are you?” I give her the information and hang up.
Miss Papadakis looks nervous. This is not what she signed up for, and she can’t really do anything to help but sit with me until my cousin arrives.
We walk through the sliding doors, her hand on my back and my heart in my mouth.
42
Thirty minutes later, Yiota rushes down the hospital hallway and collapses into the hard plastic chair next to me. She throws her arms around me in a bear hug. I didn’t realize until that moment how clenched my entire body was, and it takes me a second to relax even a little. I’m so drained from crying and trying not to panic that I can barely find the strength to hug her back.
Miss Papadakis stands up awkwardly, twisting her hands together, which is what she’s been doing since the hospital people told me (through Miss P) that Dad is still in surgery and might not be out for a while, and that, by the way, I couldn’t see him anyway because I’m a minor and this is the critical care unit, and would my mother be getting here soon?
“It’s okay, you can go, efcharisto, greekgreekgreekgreek,” Yiota tells her, and with a last awkward pat on my arm, Miss Papadakis is gone. I’m relieved—watching her feel uncomfortable has not been helping, though I’m grateful she came with me, of course.
“They won’t let me see him,” I whisper to Yiota. “When he comes out of surgery, I mean . . . and they won’t tell me anything! I—”
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Yiota murmurs. “We’ll take care of it, of course. Don’t worry about that, you just send prayers to your father. Okay?”
My phone buzzes with another text; my GIS friends and my NYC friends (I texted Hil and Matty to let them know what was happening) have sent me a hundred messages, and I haven’t known how to respond. What could they do, anyway? Hold down the doctors until they let me see my dad? Take up a collection to pay the bill? Find a way to turn back time so I never came here in the first place?
Because right now, the last plan is the one I’d like to implement most. We came here because of me, no matter what Dad says—and now he’s hurt and there’s nothing I can do.
We sit there, listening to the clocks tick. Every ten minutes or so, Yiota gets up and tries to talk to the hospital staff, mostly getting ignored because she looks so young and isn’t a close relation—technically, she isn’t related to him at all. As far as we know, he’s still in surgery, and that’s all they’ll tell her.
Yiota keeps checking her phone, clicking it in and out of its case, and it’s annoying the hell out of me. It’s not her fault, I’m just on edge and upset, but I swear I’m about to throw it across the waiting room. I wish Tony were here so I could—Tony!
I suddenly remember that he’s been cooped up in the house, all alone, without being walked or anything. I turn to Yiota in a panic. I feel hot tears of exhaustion and frustration starting to leak out of my eyes. “I can’t leave, and I know he’s just a dog, but I can’t—he’s old, he can’t be all—”
“Honey, this is no problem, okay?” Yiota says, squeezing my hands. “I’ll go. You stay here, just tell me what to do, okay? I can be there in no time—I borrowed Nik’s scooter to come here. Your place is very close.”
I drag the back of my hand across my eyes for what seems like the millionth time in the la
st two hours and explain where the leash is and the plastic bags and the food. Yiota gives me another hug. “I’ll be back really quick, okay, so don’t worry. But if he gets here before me, just . . . let him help, okay? He loves you.”
And she’s gone before I can ask what she’s talking about.
What a weird thing to say, I think. Maybe it’s a Greek saying that doesn’t translate.
I take a deep breath and start returning texts to my friends. Not like I have anything else to do. Thanks for checking in. Can’t really talk, but scared. Don’t know anything yet. XO
About an hour later, I’m reading a long text from Hilary when I hear a deep, accented voice calling my name. I look up, startled.
It’s Thios Labis. He’s carrying a small suitcase and looks harried and purposeful at the same time.
I’m so surprised, I don’t do anything for a long minute. “Um . . . Thios Labis? What are you—”
He comes over, puts down his suitcase on a plastic chair, then puts his hands on my shoulders.
“Yiota calls me, I take the next flight to here,” he explains gruffly. “These doctors, you have to be firm to them, understand? Not for two young girls to handle alone. So you leave this to me now. We will take care of it, so do not worry.”
This Just In: Teen Stunned By Surprise Appearance Of Uncle
For Zona Lowell, today was a day rife with twists and turns. The last person she anticipated seeing on this, the most frightening day thus far in her young life, was her cold and unaffectionate uncle, Labis Marousopoulou.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Ms. Lowell shared with us, her voice faltering slightly. “My uncle had never said that many words to me, maybe even cumulatively. And the prideful part of me, the part that still felt responsible for defending my wonderful dad, wanted to tell him to go back to Crete and not bother worrying about us Lowells, because we could take care of ourselves. You know?”
But the bigger part of Ms. Lowell knew that she did need help. It was up to her whether or not to accept that help, of course, on behalf of herself and her badly injured father.
“The truth is that I have never been so grateful to see a relative since I got to Greece,” she admitted finally. “And he’s certainly not the one I expected to be grateful for. But life keeps surprising me, I guess.”
Filed, 4:07 p.m., Athens.
I start to cry again, but these aren’t desperate tears—they’re relieved ones. Labis pulls me into his arms; he smells like tobacco and salt and olive oil soap, and it makes me think of Crete. He pats my hair gently, and the man Thia Angela tried so hard to describe peeks out a little from behind his high walls of emotional defense. I know Yiota loves him, and know that my mother must have loved him, too. I guess he isn’t good at getting over being hurt by people, either. Maybe we have more in common than I realized.
He steers me back into my seat and tells me to stay put. The next thing I know, he’s over at the main desk, going off on a nurse in rapid-fire Greek and clearly refusing to take no for an answer. She makes a phone call and a doctor comes scurrying out within two minutes. I can’t believe it. I haven’t laid eyes on an actual doctor—one who wasn’t rushing somewhere and ignoring me, anyway—since we got here.
Thios Labis says some things, and the doctor says some things, and then my uncle reaches into his coat and takes out what appears to be a thick envelope. He hands it to the doctor, who smoothly pockets it, nods sharply, and walks off.
Labis comes back over to sit down. He looks annoyed. “What did you give him?” I ask tentatively.
“Ah, this country, you know, you have to give someone a little gift if you want them to do their job right. Is ridiculous, but this is the way we do it.” He pulls a Greek newspaper out of the front pocket of his suitcase and unfolds it.
“You mean you gave him money? Thios Labis, I can’t accept—I mean, I really appreciate your . . . I just don’t have, I mean, to pay you back . . .” I start calculating in my head. A last-minute plane ticket, plus whatever was in that envelope, not to mention whatever my dad’s bills are going to be . . . I don’t know if Labis can afford to spend that kind of money, but my dad and I definitely can’t. We just don’t have it. My chest starts to constrict.
“Zona,” he says quietly, looking up from the paper, “this is just money, these things. Money is like water, you understand? It flows . . . one person who needs it to another. There is always more money, from somewhere. There is not always more family. I am . . . Éla, my English is not good for talking so much, very sorry.” He pauses, searching for a word, then giving up. “I am realize now, I was wrong, I . . . not know how to say. Please, agapi mou, do not worry. I will take care of this all. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you, Thios.” Because what else can I say? He nods and goes back to his paper. And I go back to listening to the clock tick.
43
I slowly become aware that someone is shaking my shoulder and calling my name. I open my eyes, taking a second to remember where I am. My neck and shoulders hurt from sitting in this chair so long.
Then I snap my head up and I’m wide awake; Yiota is there holding out a cup of coffee. And smiling, which I take as a good sign.
“Tony is fine,” she tells me. “And your dad is out of surgery. He is awake, and my dad is going to make them let you see him.” She indicates Labis, who is gesticulating broadly at another doctor and talking to him very sternly.
I almost feel bad for the doctor.
Almost.
A nurse finally comes over, and I follow her down a corridor into a barely lit room. I look out the tiny window and see it’s already dark outside. The whole day has passed since I got here.
I don’t know if it’s all the machines surrounding him, or the white sheets, but for the first time in my life, my dad looks frail. Frail . . . and old. It scares me. His leg is in a massive cast and supported by a sling hanging from the ceiling. His face is swollen on one side. That’s really all I can see without moving the covers.
I can’t tell if he’s awake, and I’m not sure if I should say anything, but then he whispers, “Ace. That you?”
I let out a little laugh, wiping away yet more tears. “Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”
“This is gonna be one hell of a story, am I right?” He coughs, and I leap to grab a cup of water from the bedside table. I hold the straw out for him to sip, then he closes his eyes. “These drugs are terrific. Find out what they are, willya?”
“Dad!” I scold him, but I’m thinking, If he can make jokes, that means he’s going to be okay. Right? “This is serious. Renowned Journalist Presses Luck, Goes One Step Too Far. You are a mess.”
“I know.” He opens his eyes again, and they look worried. “I don’t know how long I have to . . . You may have to call my editor about a loan. He’ll do that, I think . . . I got traveler’s insurance, but this is—”
I reach out and touch his shoulder carefully, not sure where he might be in pain. I hear the door opening behind me; it’s Thios Labis. I gesture for him to come in.
“It’s okay, Dad. This is, um, Yiota’s father, Labis. He . . . he flew in from Crete. Just now, I mean. And he talked to all the doctors and . . .”
Dad is squirming a bit, like he’s trying to sit up. I can tell it’s hurting him to move, and his eyes are unfocused from the medication. He would never have wanted to face my mother’s relatives—especially this one—in such a weak position. My heart aches and I let my words fade away, because I don’t know what to say or do.
Labis surprises me again. He puts a strong hand under Dad’s back and helps him lean against the pillows. “David, you remember me, nay?” he says quietly in his gruff voice. “I am sorry you are in hospital and I . . . I say already to Zona, I will take care everything. Bills, is all taken care of this. So you are not to worry.”
Dad looks as shocked as I feel, but also like h
e’s trying to stand his ground. “Labis, I don’t think that would be . . . I can’t accept . . .” he murmurs softly. He clears his throat.
“I hope you will accept from me also an apology,” Labis interjects.
Dad is quiet. I think maybe he’s drifted off, but then he says, “You were very important to Hélenè, always. She never—”
The door opens and a nurse comes in. “Your father needs to rest, cannot have infection,” she says in heavily accented English. “Sleeping very important now, yes?”
Dad’s eyes are closing, and whatever he’d been about to say is gone. Labis puts his hand on my shoulder. “We let him rest now, nay?” So I kiss Dad on the cheek and we creep out of the room.
Back in the world of blue plastic chairs, Yiota is waiting. “He’s resting,” I tell her. “His leg is in a cast and he’s all banged up . . . and they didn’t tell me how long it’ll take to recover yet. I don’t know how he’ll be able to . . . do anything.” I slump into a seat next to her and put my head in my hands.
Of all the disasters I anticipated coming to Greece, this isn’t close to anything I imagined. Will I have to find a nurse to take care of him? I can’t leave him and Tony alone all day while I’m at school, obviously. Back home, we have people who would help—friends, neighbors—but here . . . the only adults I know live on Crete. I don’t think the powers that be will let me quit school and nurse him myself. Which, considering the implications of a ruptured spleen and a broken leg, I don’t think I’m capable of doing, anyway.
I feel hopeless and lost and helpless and young.
Yiota interrupts my train of thought. “Zona. My mother is going to come. She and Baba will stay here and help you. So you don’t have to be scared or worried, okay?”
I look up at her. “But—”
Thios Labis reaches across his daughter and puts his hand on mine. “I am already tell you, we are family. That’s all to say.”
So I don’t say anything. I just let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me Page 22
