Right Uppercut

Chapter 6

“Hey, Dad,” I greeted him the next morning as I strode into the living room, still in my pajamas.

Despite the fact that he depended on me more than he probably ever thought he would, he still liked to be awake before I went to school.

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” he said, his voice quiet and gruff. I kissed his cheek quickly before moving into the kitchen.

I popped some bread into the toaster and turned on a skillet to make scrambled eggs. I walked over to the kitchen table and dropped Dad’s pills for Tuesday mornings into my palm. I got him a glass of water and went back into the tiny living room.

“Here you go,” I said, holding out the pills and water. This was our routine, every morning. Part of the routine was that he would fight me for a few moments before he just swallowed them all at once.

But this morning, I felt his cold fingertips brush mine as he took them out of my hands.

“Are you okay, Dad?” I asked, concern washing over me.

He just nodded and popped one pill into his mouth. I saw that his face was really pale and his eyes looked dark. I put my hand to his head. He felt a little warm, but nothing out of the ordinary. He handed me back the glass of water, half of which he drank.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Just feel a little under the weather today,” he tried to reassure me with a weak smile.

I scrunched my eyebrows together and opened my mouth to protest that the image of his thin body before me indicated that he was more than just a little under the weather. But before I could continue my interrogation, I smelt something buring.

“Dammit, I forgot about the toast,” I muttered to myself, rushing back into the kitchen and popping the toast out. “Shitty toaster.”

I flicked off the burner on the stove to prevent another fire scare and rushed back to my dad. He was laying in his recliner with his eyes closed and I noticed that his chest was rising and falling as he took long, deep breaths.

I didn’t know what I should do. I didn’t know what was wrong with him, so I didn’t know if I should just call for an ambulance or call one of his many doctors. In hindsight, calling 911 immediately is the most logical answer,  but in my panicked state, no logic was getting through.

I picked up the landline and dialed Mitchell’s number. After three rings, he picked up. “Am I late or something?”

“Mitch, my dad’s sick. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s pale and his fingers are freezing. I think something’s wrong with him! What should I do?”

“Daphne, call 911. I’m on my way,” he said assertively.

“Mitch-”

“Seriously, Daphne. He needs help. I’ll be there in a minute.” Then the line went dead.

I quickly dialed 911 and answered the usual questions the dispatcher asked. I can’t even recall any thoughts or words I said during my panicked state.

I was terrified.

As I was still talking to the dispatcher, Mitch had come into the house. He stood silently next to me, his presence calming me just a teensy bit because at least I wasn’t alone. I felt helpless as the paramedics picked up my father, strapped him to a stretcher, and carried him into the back of the ambulance. I held his hand as we rode along.

“I love you, Dad,” I said quietly for fear that speaking louder would bring on the waterworks, which could not happen.

He didn’t say anything and I wondered if he even heard me until he squeezed my hand. That only made me feel a tiny bit reassured while the larger part of me was freaking out.