My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 31

31

FRANTICALLY, I CHECKED CALLER ID—Unknown Number—and the phone directory, but found no listing under Sydney's name. Son-of-a-bitch! I jumped in the car and sped to her studio hoping to find some kind of emergency number listed on the front door, but there was nothing. Back at home I lay awake the rest of the night waiting for the phone to ring again. It didn't.

I fixed a pot of coffee and sat at the breakfast table watching the sun come up wondering if Sydney might be watching it as well, wondering what kind of night she'd had.

I took a shower, dressed, remembered the shattered cassette Martha wanted, dug it out of the trash, and gave it to her when I picked her up. We arrived back at the hospital just before 8 a.m., and I noticed Winston sitting in the waiting room on Dad's floor. His hat was tipped down over his face covering his scars. I supposed he was there to support Mom.

"You think he's being a little pushy?" I asked Martha wheeling her down the hall.

"Maybe he just wants to be close by in case something happens and she needs him."

"Nice guy."

Dad was still in Cardiac Care, but was now awake. Mom sat beside him holding his hand and although she looked tired, she looked relieved. When she saw us, she came out to tell us the latest news. It was not good.

"He's had a lot of trouble breathing today and his legs are swelling which they think is because he doesn't have enough circulation in his legs to remove the excess fluid."

"Can't they do anything?"

"They put him on oxygen and they gave him something to help with the swelling, but they said it would probably get worse."

I stood at the glass and watched Dad's chest rise and sink. I wanted to feel what normal people feel when they know they are losing their father, but I felt nothing. It was as if I was looking at someone else's father. Not mine. I'd never had a real father. For me there was nothing to lose. Nothing to miss. There was no love between us and there never had been. And that's what hurt the most. Why couldn't he love me? What more could I have done?

A tear strayed down my cheek. Mom saw it, threw her arms around me, and held me. I didn't have the heart to tell her I was crying for myself, not him.

We tried to talk Mom into going home and getting some rest, but she wouldn't hear of it. We did talk her into joining us for breakfast at the hospital café. Afterward, I had the chance to spend a few minutes alone with Dad.

The room smelled of alcohol and gauze. The bed was high. The chair was low. The florescent light cold. A tower of electronic equipment next to the head of the bed beeped steadily. All so very uncomfortable and antiseptic. Then he spoke and I realized how well it fit him.

"You got that shit straightened out yet, boy?"

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and fought off the temptation to snap back. "Not yet, Dad."

"Ain't nobody ever disgraced the Baimbridge name like you done."

Here we go again! I looked away—out the window, down the hall to the waiting room. Mom and Winston. He had his hat off and I could see the burn scars from where I stood. He was holding Mom's hand. She was crying.

"Dad?"

"What?" he grunted after a long pause.

I looked at his face. There was a clear tube now wrapped around his ears with a pair of nozzles in his nose. His hair hung in matted clumps around his head. I sighed. "Why is it so hard for you to believe me?"