Three weeks ago
My cell rang, waking me up. It was three in the morning. “Hello?”
“Hello?” a female voice said.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Ms. Becker, hospital social worker at West Chester Hospital. Your father has been in a car accident, and we’re trying to stabilize him. Is there any way you can come to the hospital?”
The lady’s voice was so calm. There was no panic or sense of urgency. I sat up, and when I tried to speak, only a croak came out. I cleared my throat. “Wait, wait. Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. May I ask how old you are?”
Air shot from my nose. “Eighteen. Is he gonna be all right?”
“You and your family drive safely. Come to the main ER desk, and I’ll take you—”
I hung up on her and raced into Oscar’s room. “Oscar?” I shook him wildly.
“What the hell are you doing?” He shoved my hands away.
“It’s Dad! He’s in the emergency room. Some lady just called and said he was in a car accident. They want us there right now!”
Oscar pushed himself up to sitting. “Oh my God.”
“Get dressed. Let’s go!”
I pulled up to the emergency room doors and parked. The security guard stopped us. “Are either of you the patient?”
“No. Our dad’s in there!” I barked.
“I’m sorry, guys, but you can’t park there. You’re in the ambulance lane. The ER lot is right over—”
I cut him off. “Seriously, sir? Our father could be dying right now.” I turned and went through the automatic doors.
Oscar grabbed my arm. “We can’t block the ambulances, Vance!”
“I don’t give a shit about ambulances!” I screamed in his face.
He held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from bawling right there in front of the guard and dropped the keys into his palm. I turned and darted to the front desk.
The nurse called someone as soon as I asked where Steve Irving was. A blond, curly-haired woman came through the double doors. She introduced herself as the woman from the phone as we walked double time through the ER. She pulled a curtain back and there he was. My knees buckled. “Oh shit, Dad. What did you do?” He was unconscious. Cuts all over his face, hands, and forearms. He had some type of breathing apparatus with tubes and straps, and he had a baby-blue neck brace on.
The front desk nurse brought Oscar back. He was panting. “I ran,” he whispered to no one.
We stood shoulder to shoulder and stared at our broken father.
One sentence was on repeat in my head: He might die mad at me.