Sixteen

There are few things as jarring as a phone ringing in the middle of the night. Who would call me at 3:51 A.M.? I jolted awake, my heart racing. But then I smiled, sure it was Patrick. Of course it was Patrick.

“Couldn’t sleep for thinking about me?” I asked.

“Libby,” my mom said. “Can you come over?”

I sat up, my chest thumping. “What is it? Are you okay?” I was already out of bed, stripping off my pajamas, pulling on underwear.

“It’s Daddy. Something’s wrong.” Her voice was filled with confusion, anguish.

My head pounded. I dug my knuckle into my temple. “Did you call 911?” I asked as I pulled on jeans, zipping them, looking around for my shoes.

“I didn’t know what to do.”

Oh god. “I’ll call them, Mom. Hang up, okay? I’ll call them and then I’ll be right there.” A small sound escaped her throat. I made my voice calm to hide my fear. “He’ll be okay, Mom,” I said, but I didn’t feel that optimism in my bones. I walked back and forth in front of the dresser, pounding my thigh with my fist. “Hang up, now. I’ll be right there.”

My hand shook as I punched in 911 and choked out the address. I knew I had to keep it together for my mother, but as I tied my shoes a wail gathered in my throat. Please, no. Not yet. Let him be all right.

I wasn’t ready. I still needed my father. It didn’t matter that I was fifty years old. At that moment I felt ten. Six. Five years old.

Daddy.

*   *   *

Lights from the ambulance strobed the neighborhood as I drove up. Two men were lifting a stretcher down the porch steps. My mother held my father’s hand, running alongside in quick little steps as they moved toward the waiting vehicle. He looked fine when I got to him, just sleeping. I touched his cheek. “I love you, Daddy,” I whispered, wishing for a finger twitch or the tremble of an eyelid. If he were dead they’d be carrying him out completely covered by the sheet, I thought, and took solace in that.

“I’ll be right behind you,” I told my mother as the EMT helped her into the ambulance. “I’ll get you some clothes.” She was oblivious that she was in her blue chenille bathrobe—she probably wouldn’t care even if she did realize it—but it was something useful I could do.

At the hospital, little clusters of people stood and sat in the waiting room: a woman with wiry gray hair and three children wearing Chicago Cubs caps; a young couple with black hair, black lipstick, black nail polish and silver posts through their noses. And my mother, sitting alone, looking very small, turned in on herself, hands folded in her lap, head down. I stood in the doorway afraid to talk, afraid to move. I had a bad feeling. How could I comfort her? Who was going to comfort me?

She looked up then, her whole being overflowing with sadness. I sat beside her, hugged her, patted her hair down, put my hand on hers.

“I called Jill,” I said. “She and Mark are on the way.”

She nodded.

“I brought you some clothes.” I pointed to the paper bag on the floor but I could see it wasn’t registering. “Doesn’t matter,” I said and we sat in silence, Mother’s foot tapping softly in her slipper.

“What happened?” I asked.

She slumped forward and put her face in her hands. I rubbed her bony back. “I don’t know. He moaned in his sleep. I thought he was dreaming and I went back to sleep.” Her voice cracked.

“Shhhh,” I said. “You couldn’t know, Mom.” She sat back and I put my arm around her. She was trembling.

“But then something woke me. He was so still.” Tears fell down her cheeks. “I should have done something earlier. If he doesn’t make it it’s my fault.”

“No, Mom. It’ll be all right. He’ll pull through.” What else could I say? I rubbed her shoulder, wishing someone were there to rub mine.

And then, thankfully, Jill and Mark rushed in looking like they’d just gotten out of bed, which, of course, they had. I almost cried with relief at seeing them. And right behind them was Michael. The sight of his face took my breath away. I was surprised by his presence but glad Jill had called him. He scooped me up in a big, protective hug and I melted into his chest. He smelled like Michael, a clean, sleepy smell.

“You okay?” he asked and I nodded. He cupped my head with his hand and I exhaled. “He’ll come out of this, Lib. He’s going to be fine.”

His sureness settled around me like a safety net.