Page 93 of Emmett
“Ro’s gotta hate me for this. And Davis, Christ, he’s probably—”
“Terrified,” he tells me. “We all are; and sometimes, like for Rowan, that looks a lot like anger. For Davis, it’s avoidance.”
“For you?”
I’m almost afraid of the answer, but his hand drops onto my shoulder with a firm, assuring squeeze.
“You’re a grown man,” he says. “You don’t need your dad to fuss over you or worry as much as I do, but when big things happen in your life, I don’t see an adult. When you got your license, when you went on your first date, when you graduated…” His hand moves from my shoulder to the side of my neck as his mouth forms a tight smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, and his voice breaks as he speaks. “I’m looking at my five-year-old son right now. Thinking about that little boy being insomuch pain that he—”
He picks up the insulated bag with a shake of his head and he clears his throat to send away the emotion that’s choking him. As he settles back into the chair thathasto be uncomfortable, he grabs his food and changes the subject. “Tell me how it went with Dr. Weber.”
“You’ll never believe this,” I tell him, “but I’m depressed.”
A startled laugh escapes him before his hand clamps over his mouth. “Emmett Reid, that is not funny.”
“It’s a little funny, Dad. She probably got paid two grand to come tell me what you’ve been saying for months.”
His face falls more than I knew it could. “I’m sorry, bud,” he tells me. “I didn’t realize how bad it was. I should have.”
“I didn’t want you to,” I admit. “I still don’t. This is…”
Embarrassing.Disappointing.Suffocating.
Tearing off a piece of the warm roll in front of me, I scan the room again. My eyes land on the white identifying bracelet around my wrist and the vibrant redALLERGYbracelet that overlaps it. For a second, I wonder if Anna is allergic to anything, because Dad isn’t.
For a second, I think she should know that I’m here.
For longer than I care to admit, I wonder if she would come if she did know. I wonder if something in her heart would open up and she would find herself in that other chair, perched at my side like Dad is.
If I hadn’t woken up, would she have cared at all?
Would Nash?
My gaze trails to the IV line tucked into the bend of my elbow and I follow it toward the bag hanging behind me and the machines beeping steadily behind it. I imagine what it sounded like to my dad when, instead of its steady beeping, the machine played one long, continuous tone. A wave of guilt knocks into me so hard that it makes me want to hurl.
“Dad, I—” I hesitate, looking at my dad’s eyes. He’s been crying; for a while, by the looks of it. I can’t tell him the truth and add to that. “I’ll talk to someone.”
For the first time since he saw me drinking in my living room, he looks like he can breathe.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Emmett
Ro was right about the food here; it’s ass. Actually, no, that’s an insult to asses. I think the oatmeal that I had for breakfast was scraped off of the floor somewhere, and the blueberry muffin came from the same factory where baseballs are made. I bet if I threw it at the door, I could shatter the glass with it.
When a nurse comes in after what feels like my tenth conversation with Weber to take out my IV line and tell me that I can finally take a shower, I could almost kiss her right on the mouth.
Pulling off the gown – which is somehow draftier than it would be if I were completely naked – I look in the bathroom mirror and run a hand over the matching set of rectangular burns marring my chest which sandwich a deep, angry bruise that sits at the center.
I hold back a laugh, remembering Ro telling me that I had looked ‘microwaved.’ If she wasn’t so mad at me, I would text her a picture of the burns and crack a joke about my upgrade from being microwaved to being deep fried. She wouldn’t appreciate that right now, though; maybe when she sees me in person, if she ever even wants to again.
The shower is quick, but it’s hot and I get clean, so I don’t really care. I don’t even care that I have to leave the door cracked and listen to my dad saying ‘check in’ every fiveminutes – which is admittedly an improvement over having the door wide open while I pissed up until today. I felt like I was covered in a layer of puke and grease before I got in the shower, and it feels so good to finally scrub that off. I’d love a good shave, too, but I haven’t earned razor privileges; I’m working my way up to forks, at least.
It feels even better to slip into my own hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, each with their drawstrings removed, before joining Dad back in the room. I don’t think he’s gone home for more than a few hours at a time, and according to the bags under his eyes, I think he’s slept even less.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him while I drop onto the bed. “It’s been three days. I’m safe. You can go home.”
With a pat on my leg and a soft smile on his face, he tells me, “You don’t know this because you don’t have kids, but when one of them is in the hospital, you stay with them.”