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I can’t remember the last time he called me. I sit up straight, my heart immediately sinking to my stomach.
“Is everything okay?” I ask instead of a hello.
His tone is flat. “Dad’s in the hospital.”
“What?” I say in alarm.
I stand up, ignoring James’ concerned look.
“Where’s everyone?”
“Sophia has Charlie with her at Mercy General. I’m heading over there now.”
“Why didn’t she call me?”
“She did. Said you didn’t pick up.”
I curse under my breath, the guilt so intense I feel like I might choke on it.
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
I hang up, not bothering to wait for a reply. I look down at James, remorse chewing at my insides at having to leave her like this.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, worry marring her face.
Whatever is happening with my dad categorically falls into the shit we agreed we wouldn’t bring into our arrangement. So I avoid the subject.
“Something came up. I’ve got to go.” I lean down to kiss her. “I’m so sorry.” Standing back up, my phone is still gripped in my hand. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
She nods, her eyebrows still pinched together, and whispers a soft, “Okay.”
I linger for half a second, watching her.
I feel split in half.
But I turn around and leave.
27
OZZY
The distinct antiseptic smell permeating the hospital corridors reminds me of the time I broke my arm when I was thirteen. I tried to land a trick on a halfpipe in the skate park near school. My left arm broke the fall—the bone snapped clean in half–and I was stuck in a cast for five weeks.
It’s also the last memory I have of my mother taking care of me.
I’m ashamed to admit … when she ultimately disappeared again, I yearned for another injury to land me in the hospital, just so she would come back and act like a mother again.
Bitterness smarts my throat and I swallow hard.
At the nurse’s station, I ask what room I can find Richard McKenna in. The charge nurse directs me to the fourth door on the left. My feet feel like lead, while the glare of the fluorescent lights gives me a headache.
The muted beeps of hospital machines and the intermittent coughs of sick patients become the backgroundnoise to my slow walk up to the room, my heart pumping anxiety straight into my blood.
I see Huxley first. I notice he’s shaved his hair into a green mohawk. His new haircut, paired with the combat boots and leather jacket, makes his already serious features look even more severe.
My eyes then land on Sophia and Charlie. They haven’t noticed me yet, staring down at the first bed to my right. It’s a shared room, the faded yellow curtains drawn shut between the stainless steel beds for some semblance of privacy. Huxley’s a few steps away from the other two. The divide in our family can be felt—and seen—even here.
My attention swings to my dad sleeping, or unconscious, I still have no clue. But by the look of him, it might be the latter. His face is black and blue, his right eye swollen shut with a butterfly stitch closing a gash near his brow.
