Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,13
looked frazzled, which was rare, but who could blame her? Her hair was perfectly straight, smooth and dark blond, shoulder length, but now it was tangled, as if she’d been sleeping. Her clothes were wrinkled, too. Usually, she was so put together—her personal style could be called understated hip. Always quality stuff, always a little boring unless you looked closely and saw that her shirt was asymmetrical or she was wearing a wicked cool silver ring. As ever, she was Mom’s guard dog, sitting by her side, reminding her to drink some water, offering her a Life Saver.
She didn’t offer me a Life Saver.
And then there was Oliver, terribly handsome as always, brown hair, green eyes, his teeth blindingly white and straight (he’d gotten braces when he and Juliet were engaged, succumbing to the pressures of American orthodontic standards). He was scrolling through his phone, and I wanted to rip it out of his hands and hit him on the head with it. Every time he caught me looking, he gave that knee-jerk smile. Oliver, I wanted to say, my father might be dying and I realize I’m probably the only one who would really miss him, but could you stop flashing your perfect teeth at me? He’d always been nice to me . . . and also had never made an effort to do more than exchange pleasantries. Then there was the way Juliet showed him off, like he was a prize cow at the state fair. “This is my husband, Oliver Smitherington.” It was that last name, probably. How could you have sex with someone with such a silly last name?
And Mom. Right now, she was a frickin’ statue, her blunt white bob perfectly in place, mascara unsmudged by tears. Why would she cry? She practically hated my father. Tolerated him at best, and while it didn’t feel great to think of my mother as a user, she had sure used Dad. His name, his hard-earned money. She hadn’t had her own job till last year.
That being said, she looked pale and alone right now. I’d expected Auntie Caro, Mom’s closest friend, to be here, since they’d been besties since before I was born. But no. Mom just stared into the distance, probably planning a tag sale to get rid of Dad’s things.
“How are you doing, Mom?” I said.
“Fine.”
“This must be very hard for you.”
She blinked. “What’s that, Sadie?”
“This must be hard for you,” I repeated more loudly, getting an evil look from Jules. “Having your husband of fifty years in a life-threatening situation. Brain bleed. Surgery.”
“I don’t need a summary, Sadie. Of course it’s hard.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” Juliet told me.
“Well, it’s a little odd, all of you stone-faced here. Except you, Oliver.” He smiled again. Jesus.
“Want some sackcloth and ashes?” she asked. “Sorry if we’re keeping it together. You keep doing you, though.”
Finally, the doctor appeared, a tall, handsome African American man wearing scrubs and a white doctor jacket with his name stitched over the pocket. Daniel Evans, MD. Neurosurgery.
God. Brain surgery. Please make it, Daddy. Please don’t die.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We had another emergency right after your . . . uh, Mr., uh . . .”
“Frost,” Juliet and I said in unison.
“Yes, of course. So.” He sat down. “Your father—and husband, Mrs. Frost—had a significant bleed, as we suspected. Right now, he’s resting, as you know. We’re keeping him on the ventilator to help his breathing, more as a precaution than anything else, since he had started breathing on his own again in the ambulance on the way here.”
My insides started to quiver. It sounded so dire.
“I wish I could tell you what to expect. There is damage to the part of the brain that controls speech, we’re sure of that. There’s also bruising from the fall, which has caused some swelling. But he survived the surgery. It’s going to be one step at a time. Now, I’m sure you have questions.”
“Will he wake up?” I asked.
He tilted his head. “We don’t know yet. Brain injuries are hard to predict. Every one is different. All I can say now is he’s stable but critical. The next couple of days will tell us more. Where do you folks live?”
“Stoningham,” Juliet answered. Mom still hadn’t said a word.
He nodded. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? We’ll call if his status changes.”