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Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. The temptation to ignore it is great, but I reach for it and make a mental note to turn it off afterward.
I glance at the screen. “It’s Sebastian. He probably wants to know how my dad is.” I swipe to answer.
“You need to go back to the hospital. Your father has had another stroke. This one’s bad. They are resuscitating him at this very moment.” His tone is urgent, and a cold shiver goes through me.
“I’ll be there in a few.”
“Ethan is ready for you.”
I disconnect the call. “My father has had another stroke. A bad one. I have to go ...”
Grace jumps to her feet. “I’m coming with you. Give me a minute; I’ll meet you in the car.”
I want to protest that I’m okay going alone, but the truth is that I do need Grace with me. I nod and carry our dirty dishes to the sink. I wait for her in the foyer, and when she comes down, she gives me a quick hug and a kiss.
Grace keeps my hand in hers for the entire drive to the hospital. So many things flit through my mind. What if he doesn’t make it? I don’t have any strong feelings about that. My parents haven’t been a part of my life for so long that the thought doesn’t cause me any undue distress. What saddens me is that we’ve never had the kind of father and son relationship other people enjoy. I don’t understand why it was so hard for us to bond.
“Fuck.”
I glance out the window to see what could have made my normally calm driver and body guard let out a curse. I see it then. The paparazzi are already there, gathered at the entrance of the hospital like sharks circling their prey.
Dismay settles in me, and I want to punch someone.
“Maybe there’s another celebrity in the hospital,” Grace says, her voice shaky.
A quick tap of my phone confirms that my father is the big story. Ethan talks on his phone and drives the car to the hospital’s rear, where a guard opens a gate to let us in.
I’m glad there’s another way into the hospital, but my relief is short-lived. As we walk to the lifts, a man lifts a camera and takes a picture of me and Grace. Before we can react, he turns and walks away. I feel violated, especially at a time like this.
“It doesn’t matter,” Grace says when we’re in the lift.
I squeeze her hand gratefully. She’s right. A picture doesn’t matter. What matters is the reason why we’re here. To give my mother some support. I won’t pretend that my father is the reason why I’m here.
We step out of the elevator, and immediately hear loud sobs coming from the waiting room on the right. The voice sounds familiar. My mother. I walk fast into the waiting room and see her then with two nurses on either side of the couch trying to comfort her.
“I’ve got her,” I tell them.
When Mom sees me, her sobs grow louder, and I pull her into my arms.
“He’s gone, Kyle. He’s gone. How am I going to do this alone?”
My father is dead. I search myself, but I feel nothing. No sadness, just pangs of regret for what might have been.
***
“He was a good father to you, wasn’t he?” my mother asks me.
We’re in her home, and it’s almost seven. They still live in the same home I bought for them all those years ago, and I’m pleased to see that they’ve kept up with repairs, and it’s in pretty good shape.
It’s in a nice, gated community with good security, which has worked out well because the paparazzi cannot camp outside her house. We are in the living room, which is decorated with so many photographs of me that it’s embarrassing. When all this is over, I’ll have to ask my mother to pull some of them down. It looks like a shrine.
Grace is seated next to my mother, holding her hand, and she raises an eyebrow at me when I don’t answer. If my mother wasn’t so distraught, she wouldn’t ask me that question. She knows as well as I do that he wasn’t a good father.
“He had a lot of pressure, you know,” she continues. “He wanted so much to prove himself, but how could he when he couldn’t father a child.”
I freeze. I’m sure my ears are deceiving me. I inch closer to the edge of the chair. “What do you mean, he couldn’t father a child?”
My mother looks up, startled. “Did I say that? That’s not what I meant.”
I see the fear in her eyes, and I know then what I’ve probably known deep down but did not want to acknowledge. “Was he my biological father?”
