something to me last night?”
“Desmond’s always considered his problems a burden. Deep down, I think maybe he’s embarrassed about the situation with his dad. And even deeper than that, he’s ashamed of those feelings. Desmond’s a good guy, Maggie, but he’s shit at asking for help.”
I swallow, wrapping my brain around everything my father is saying. Nervous excitement sets in, and in that very instant, I know exactly what I need to do.
35
Dallas
Desmond
The beeping of monitors and the stark white walls of the hospital keep me trapped in my own thoughts—for seconds, maybe minutes, maybe hours. I’m not sure, but I can tell morning has come and gone by the rise and fall of the sun through the shaded screen window. My heart feels like it’s still stuck in the dark moment of early morning when I first heard the stark news of my father’s diagnosis.
“Your father had a heart attack.”
The words repeat over and over in my mind along with everything else I’d been told when I arrived. My father got wasted again. My father got arrested again. But this time, after the cuffs were put on his wrists, he didn’t make it into the car. He fell to his knees as he endured a heart attack that landed him in the emergency room.
I stretch my arms and stand from the lounge chair I’ve been sprawled out on all day. My dad is currently hooked up to a bunch of machines. There’s a bag of saline dripping into his veins and a heart monitor keeping a regular beat. I’m told the scary part is over and that once he wakes up, he’ll be scheduled for more tests and doctor visits. Eventually, he can move from the ICU and into a regular room, where we can discuss recovery treatments such as rehab, therapy, and medications.
It’s all been done before, and no matter how serious my father takes it all in the beginning, he always has a relapse, each one worse than the last. I’m as sick and tired of the broken record as I am terrified and anxious over it all. I don’t know when enough is going to be enough. Every time I think he’s hit rock-bottom, he proves me wrong.
“Des.” My father’s throaty whisper freezes me in midstretch. I turn to see his eyes starting to open, revealing the same ice-blue color as mine. “What’d I do this time?” Even in a state of groggy half-consciousness, he manages to attempt a joke.
“Oh, you know.” I give him a half-smile. “Same ol’ thing. Boozed it up too hard, got yourself arrested, but this time, you added in a little twist and decided to have a mini heart attack while your rights were being read to ya. You always have to make a big production out of things, don’t you?”
He coughs and then grunts. “A heart attack, huh? That’s a new one.”
It’s silent for a few beats while my dad seems to take in the space around him again. Then his eyes flit back to me. “Got any new recipes to show me?”
On the flight to Dallas, I prepared for my reunion with my father. It’s never long into our conversations before he starts to ask me about cooking, and his questions always start off with “Got any new recipes to show me?”
I smile and pull out my tablet. “I’m going to tell the nurse you’re awake. Enjoy these.”
My words aren’t necessary. The moment my dad lays his eyes on the first photo, he is in another world. He stares at the first one for nearly a minute, taking in every pixel of the photo like he’s studying for a final exam. Then he swipes to the next and does the exact same thing with that photo.
I step out of the room, knowing he’ll be preoccupied for a while, and walk up to a small desk with a window that oversees my father’s room. Kari is the nurse who has been on duty since seven in the morning. She’s tapping away at her computer when I approach. “Hey there,” she says with a smile.
“He just woke up.”
“Oh, wonderful.” She checks the time on the wall over her head. “Just in time. I’ll check his vitals and see if we can get him a food tray. He’s probably hungry.”
“I can always run down and get him something if needed.”
She smiles and pats my hand. “Aren’t you a good son? I’ve got this. But maybe you should run down to the cafeteria