Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Maisy may be growing up, but she can’t deal with these ugly surprises alone.
She’s only seventeen.
Damn.
Why did I have to leave for the coffee shop today?
I don’t count how many traffic laws I break, but I’m at the hospital in just over fifteen minutes after swiveling through the maze of traffic.
I glance at my phone as I jog through the parking garage toward the elevator.
Maisy never gave me a room number, so I decide to try the ER first.
Dear God—Dear Universe—please take care of him.
Don’t take him away.
Not yet.
I bound into the ER waiting area breathless, looking for any sign of Maisy or her familiar pink cardigan.
Nothing. I’m about to sneak past the locked doors when a voice behind me calls, “Ma’am, can I help you?”
I spin around to find a nurse staring at me, her arms akimbo.
“I hope so. I’m looking for my daddy, Harold Renee?”
“Oh, yes. You’re the other daughter? Right this way.”
Geez. I don’t usually say, 'Daddy.'
But I guess that’s where my mind is now.
Shrinking. Scared. Childish.
If Dad’s health has truly deteriorated for the worse, I don’t know how we’ll manage.
I just know that for Maisy’s sake, I’d better live up to my responsible big sister role and figure it out fast.
Life doesn’t stop for grief.
Not for anyone.
Just past the massive metal doors, Maisy sits in the off-white hall, right outside Dad’s room just like I told her.
Her face is a red mess. I see the dried tracks where tears streamed down her cheeks.
I drop to the floor beside her. “Is he okay, Mais?”
She shrugs. “They won’t tell me much because I’m not eighteen. The nurse said she’d talk when you got here.”
I nod. “You never texted me the room number.”
“God, you’re right. Sorry!”
She hurls herself at me, this little cannonball of sad fear.
I hold her, running my fingers through her long dirty-blond hair and tuck my arm around her shoulder.
“Maisy, it’s okay. It’s an honest mistake.”
She pulls away from me. Something hits my nose and stinks like pure salt from the coffee cup she’s holding.
“What are you drinking?” I know I stressed water. I didn’t want anything caffeinated making her more hysterical.
“Chicken broth. The nurse insisted. She told me it would make me feel better, but so far...eh.”
I nod. “I need to check on Dad.”
I step inside his room with the waiting nurse.
He’s asleep, this thin, sagging lump almost as pale as the sheets wrapped around him.
He’s not in any obvious pain, at least, though he doesn’t look peaceful either when he’s connected to a spiderweb of machines. There’s a tube in his nose and an IV in his arm and wires running everywhere.
I glance at the heart monitor, holding my breath.
Something seems off, though it might just be my imagination.
I’m no doctor, but I’ve been through this drill enough times to know a steady jagged line is normally good. When the pattern stabs outside baseline, too low or too high, like it is right now...
I swallow thickly.
The nurse clears her throat loudly and the door swings open, catching my attention. I look over to see Maisy coming in to join us. A tall, dark-haired woman marches in behind her.
“I’m Dr. Ligotts. Are you his primary caregiver?” the doctor asks.
“I thought he doesn’t have a caregiver? He’s a grown man,” Maisy cuts in, shaking her head.
The poor kid doesn’t realize that’s what we’ve been doing this whole time.
I nod. “Yeah, you could call me that. I’m his oldest daughter.”
“Ah, good. So, Harold’s condition is stable right now, but we do need to keep him another full night for observation. You’re welcome to stay, or you can go home and we’ll call you if anything comes up.”
“We’re staying!” Maisy insists.
I guess that’s settled.
“What even happened this time?” I ask.
“The drugs are killing him.” Maisy rubs the red, puffy spots around her eyes.
Dr. Ligotts looks at me. “His degenerative condition is progressing, I’m afraid, and the drugs are very strong. I’m sure you recall he received a new steroid last month to help slow the progression, plus an anticonvulsant to prevent seizures. The anticonvulsant medication worked a little too well, it seems. His heart wasn’t contracting fast enough when he overexerted himself on the stairs. That’s what caused the fainting.”
“Wait. The seizure drug made his heart stop?” I ask.
“It sounds worse than it is,” the doctor rushes out. “Regrettably, these drugs can produce volatile results if the dosage isn’t exactly right. We’re working to refine his prescription right now.”
Yeah, no crap.
This is our second time in the hospital this year with a drug change.
“Every patient’s needs are different, Miss Renee, and so is their tolerance. As much as I wish this was an exact science, sometimes it takes several adjustments to determine what’s optimal.” The doctor folds her arms.
I sigh. I’m in no mood to argue with experts today.