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On the ninth try, he answers.
“What is it, Natalie? I’m in an important meeting right now.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Dad.”
“Not in London.”
“Mom is in the hospital.”
A beat of silence. “Is she all right?”
“I think so. I have to go pick her up.”
More silence.
“I amdone, Dad. You hear me?Done. She could have killed herself. She could have killed someone else. I’m going back to BU in a few weeks. If you don’t come home, if you don’t help her get help, I’m not living here any longer. Not for breaks, not over the summers. And I’m sick of lying about Mom. A bunch of people from town have investments with your company, right? Do you want them all knowing our family is fifty shades of fucked up?”
“Your mother doesn’t want me home, Natalie. And she certainly doesn’t want any help.”
“That’s too bad. She needs it, and you know it. So get on the next fucking flight.”
I drop the phone for a second time, then stand, pulling off the dress I wore to Madeline’s and changing into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt instead. I grab my phone and keys, then head downstairs.
The clock on the dashboard of my car reads 4:58 as I pull out of the driveway and drive down the street, past the Coles’ house. Part of me wants to call Wes and ask him to come with me. He’s the only person in town who knows part of the situation with my mom.
But I keep driving solo. He was at Madeline’s earlier, so I know he didn’t go to South Carolina with the Stevenses. Part of me feels responsible for that, since I was the one who asked him about transferring in the first place.
The only other person I’d consider calling is Liam. But heisin South Carolina, not to mention we haven’t spoken since Wes’s birthday party. He’s mad at me, I’m assuming, for keeping the knowledge about transferring to myself. It wasn’t my news to share, and I don’t regret saying nothing. It’s an easy end to our…whatever; a clean break.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
The drive to Lady of Grace Hospital takes fifteen minutes. I park in the visitor’s parking and walk through the automatic doors that lead into the emergency room.
The woman sitting at the desk has her hair up in a severe bun. She adjusts the sleeve of her pink scrubs and hands me a clipboard without looking up. “Fill this out, please.”
“I’m here to pick someone up,” I say. “Lindsay Jacobs.”
She looks up, studying me for a minute. I know I look a mess. I was too tired to take off my makeup before bed, my hair is up in a haphazard bun, and I realized in the car I put my shirt on inside out.
“One minute.” Her gaze moves to the computer, and she clicks a few windows.
I pick at my nails, a nervous habit I’ve tried to break.
“Head straight down this hall, and then take a left,” the nurse instructs.
“Thank you,” I tell her, then follow her directions.
My mom is lying on a hospital bed, one arm flung dramatically across her eyes. I let out a sigh of relief when I see she looks completely normal.
Her arm raises an inch when she hears footsteps. She glances at me, then away. “Good. You’re here.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Miss Jacobs?”
I turn to see a woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties. She’s wearing blue scrubs and a white coat. “I’m Dr. Brown. We spoke on the phone.”
She holds a hand out, which I shake.
