Hero Types

Chapter 33

The smell of the hospital was riper than she was used to, because her nose tended to be plugged up whenever she visited.
Her head was pounding when she opened her eyes. She couldn't recall a lot, just standing on the edge of the school building in the wind, and then it was all blank. Everything was blurry. There were flowers on her bedside table and she stared at them until they became purple.
There was a button on her bed. She pressed it.
What happened to me?
A man arrived a few seconds later. He introduced himself as a doctor and checked her vitals.
"You suffered a severe concussion," he said, placing his stethoscope on her chest.
"...Feels something like that," she mumbled. He smiled.
"It looks like you're going to be fine." He straightened, washing his hands. "You can go home in a couple of hours. Make sure to avoid any heavy activity for at least a month. Do you have your license?"
"Um...no, I don't." She rubbed her head. "Nope."
"Well, then you don't have to worry about it. Hopefully you don't have any big tests coming up." And then—"Your father's outside, I'll send him in."
"Wait—" but by the time she could find the word, the door had shut.
She frowned at her flowers.
Where did Dave come from?
Wherever he had come from, he was there, and he walked inside and sat down at her bedside. Why was she in a bed?
"Hey, kiddo," he said, rubbing her arm. She took her arm away. Her vision was blurry again. It was hard to focus on him.
"How'd you get here?"
"I caught a flight," he said. "Lucas called your grandmother, she was worried, she called me. You've been out for almost two days. They said you passed on the roof...?"
She rubbed her forehead and looked at the ceiling tiles.
"It's a long story. I don't want to talk about it."
They sat there for a while. He finally patted the bed and stood up.
"Well, if you're okay then, I should probably be getting—"
"Why'd you have another?"
He looked at her.
"Why did you have another baby," she said, "when you didn't even want me?"
"Honey—"
"Don't call me that."
"Kit." He patted the bed again. "Kit. I'm—I—it was your mother. She was the strong one. And when she was gone, it was just...you and me, and I couldn't—I knew I couldn't do a good job, you know?"
"So why have another?"
He didn't answer. She stared at him. Her brain was slow, but she finally realized when she'd been denying her whole life. She was disgusted.
"You're so weak," she whispered. She was the one laying in a hospital bed, but he looked broken. "You left because you knew I'd tie you down. You just—you need to feel young, don't you? And now you're pretending you're just starting out all over again, like I don't even exist all the way across the country except when it matters, and you just—"
She stopped.
It doesn't matter.
It didn't matter what she said to him. Nothing would change him. He was a bad parent. The only thing she could do was someday try to be a better one.
"Whatever." He looked so sad. She sighed, swallowed her pride (it stung) and grabbed his hand. She squeezed it once. "Good luck. You don't have to visit anymore for my sake. I'm good now."
Then she dropped his hand. He stood there for a minute. He blinked and looked at the flowers.
"...Goodbye, Kit. I..." he rubbed his head and walked to the door.
"Hey."
He stopped and looked back.
"Is there...did you see an English guy out there with a prosthetic arm? Probably wearing a hat?"
"Oh." He glanced at the door. "What, is he bad news?"
"...No." I don't know what the hell he is. "He's my—he's kind of...my boyfriend. So if you could just tell him that I'm okay, and he can go home...that'd be good."
He nodded and opened the door. "Yeah. Sure."
"Bye."
And he waved in response, and then he was gone.