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I bite my lip, not wanting to disappoint him or give him yet another thing to worry about, but he will find out eventually. “Actually, Ash won’t be here. He flew back to California this morning. He he’s getting his cast off and then racing on Saturday.”
“Damn,” Marty says, shaking his head. “His arm healed that quickly?”
I shrug. “It was only a small fracture. If he doesn’t race Saturday then he’ll screw up his racing season for good. He has to place at least third to stay at the top. Anyhow, he’s gone.”
Gone, meaning he’d left for the airport this morning without even saying goodbye. It’s not that dramatic, not really. I’d talked to him last night, told him good luck and goodbye. He was leaving at four in the morning, so I didn’t need an official goodbye phone call or anything. Besides, we still never talked about us, or the lack of us, or the beginning of a new us. Whatever was going on between Ash Carter and Hana Fisher was still a mystery because there just wasn’t time to talk about it.
Now, with dad stuck in the hospital and Molly practically comatose herself, Marty is counting on me to make things right. He throws an arm around my shoulders and gives me a friendly squeeze. “I don’t mean to put this pressure on you, kid, but you have to get Molly back here today. Hell, get her to sign a few checks, and I’ll do the rest. But we have to do something or this show can’t go on.”
“Wait,” I say, looking up. “We just need to sign the checks, right? You’ve got everything else under control?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” Marty rubs his chin. “Pay the contractors, pay the flaggers and the work crew, set up for the races, show the media where to go . . . it’s a lot, but I guess I could handle it with you and the rest of our crew. But, we really need the checks, yeah.”
I inhale the warm morning air and burst into a smile. “I can definitely help with all that. I’ll try to get Molly back here, but it probably won’t happen. Besides, we don’t need her,” I say, glancing up at the score tower next to us. “A couple of months ago, Dad put me on the track’s bank account.”
“He did?” Marty says, his expression brightening.
I nod. “Yeah. I remember going to the bank with him. That means I can write the checks.”
Marty throws his head back as if he’s thanking the heavens. “Well then! The show must go on! Your dad is going to be very proud of you.”
Chapter 25
And just when it seemed as if this whole awful situation might possibly be somewhat under control, all the little comforts I had been allowed to feel were taken away again. Last night, Dad took a turn for the worse. It was something about fluid around his heart—I never got the details through Molly’s sobbing—and they moved him back into the ICU after he’d finally gotten his own room on a normal, non-life-thr
eatening floor. Because of the Regionals happening this weekend, Molly doesn’t want anyone to know that Dad’s condition has worsened. She doesn’t want them to worry or freak out or spread the news to the media.
So she, Teig, and I had sat in Dad’s ICU room until four in the morning. I’ve never prayed as hard as I did last night. I’ve also never known a person could cry so much and for so long that their eyelids would swell as if they’d been stung by a bee. Molly’s eyes looked like that. They probably still do. She’s a total mess.
But at four-fifteen, I carefully stood up from my fake leather hospital chair and extracted my arm from Molly’s. Teig was asleep in her lap like a five-foot-nine-inch baby, his feet propped up on Dad’s hospital bed. I found a doctor in the hallway and he explained to me that my dad would most likely be okay. He’d need some rehab and surgery, but they didn’t expect anything fatal to come of this.
“Of course, I can’t make any promises in these early stages,” he said.
That was all I needed to feel okay about leaving. If Dad dies, me being there isn’t going to stop it. If he lives, I’ll see him after the races, and again, my presence won’t do anything to change the outcome. The track needs me there, to make sure that we are still open for business, and that we earn the money from this Regionals race that we need to survive.
All I can do is hope for the best, and then work my ass off to make it happen.
I stare at the coffee maker in our kitchen, watching it brew a pot of French roast. Coffee has never been my thing, but it’s seven in the morning and I slept for exactly forty-five minutes. If it takes half a bag of sugar to make the dark liquid drinkable, then that’s what I’ll do. Something needs to keep me awake today.
It’s twenty-four hours until race day and things are actually going as smoothly as I hoped they would. The pits are overflowing with racers and their families, and I managed to get them all signed in with only Dorothy’s help. Massive motorhomes and small tents fill the track’s sixteen acres. Professional motocross scouts are setting up, reviewing the resumes of the teenage racers who have dreams of going pro. Dorothy has set up the computer software and printed out the moto lists for the races tomorrow. Trophies are assembled, thanks to hours of Teig and me putting them together in the middle of the night, prize money has been counted and separated into envelopes, and the track guys have revamped our motocross track into something worthy of an award.
I uncap the thermos I brought from home and down another gulp of coffee. It scalds my throat, but I ignore the pain and gaze out at the track from the tower’s second-floor window. Marty drives the water truck over the dirt, making sure it’s packed down and wet enough to ride on tomorrow. It’ll be another scorching hot Texas day, and the track needs to be watered frequently so it doesn’t turn into a dried out dust ball.
Dorothy walks in wearing a purple Mixon Motocross shirt and a pair of jean shorts that go down to her knees. Having her around helps make everything feel normal and safe even when it isn’t. She’s like the grandmother I never had, and I feel the sudden urge to run up and hug her. I’m just about to do that when a man wearing khakis and a crisp button up shirt enters the room behind her. The presence of a stranger ruins the moment, and even worse, there’s something intense about this guy that doesn’t seem quite right. I don’t know what he wants, but I’m pretty sure he’s not here for a casual hello.
I take another sip from my coffee, wishing the term liquid courage came from this drink and not the other kind of drink that I don’t have right now. “Good morning,” I say, meeting the man’s skeptical gaze. “How can I help you?”
He glances at Dorothy as if one look at me was all the evidence he needed to settle some bet between the two of them. “Are you the kid in charge?”
Excuse you?
I grip my coffee as if I drink it every day. “I’m the legal adult who is in charge, yes. What can I do for you?”
“Where is Jim Fisher?” he demands. “Why isn’t he here? I drove all the way from Dallas this morning. We’ve had this meeting scheduled for two months.”
“What meeting?” I ask, taking in his clean-cut look one more time. Are we in some kind of legal trouble?
He snorts. “I guess Jim wasn’t as serious as he sounded on the phone. My money is clearly better used elsewhere. Do me a favor and pass the word onto Jim that I don’t appreciate him wasting my time.”
