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Chapter 27
Tony
The hum of the operating room receded behind me as I exited, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a testament to another successful procedure. A routine pacemaker installation, but important work all the same. My satisfaction was short-lived as my phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket, drawing me back into the reality of life outside of the sterilized walls. I blinked at the multitude of messages flooding my screen, each marked with the same familiar name: Mami.
Something was wrong.
My heart pounding, I quickly dialed her number. She picked up almost instantly, her voice trembling and hoarse.
“Tony,hijo, it’s Papa,” she choked out.
I felt the color drain from my face as I switched automatically into my native Spanish, a desperate need for comfort in the face of the unknown. "¿Qué pasó, Mami? What happened?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Tu padre...” she broke off, her sobs filling the line. “He’s had a massive heart attack. The doctors, they... oh, Tony, you need to come home. Now." Her words tumbled out in a torrent, a mix of English and Spanish that reflected the chaos of our world in that moment.
Every molecule in my body seemed to freeze. The bustling hospital around me faded into the background, replaced by the concern and worry in my mind. My father, my rock, my role model... fighting for his life.
“Estoy en camino, Mami. I'm on my way," I managed to force the words out, my throat closing up with a mixture of dread and fear. The hospital hallway suddenly felt oppressively small, the sterile walls closing in on me.
"Es grave, Antonio. It's serious," my mother's voice trembled. “He’s asking for you. For hischiquito." The endearment she used, one my father often called me, hit like a punch. I sank into a nearby chair, the world spinning around me.
"Lo siento, Mami, I... I need to get a flight. I'll be there as soon as I can," I told her, my voice sounding distant and hollow in my own ears.
"Por favor, Tony," her voice broke, the desperation palpable even through the distance. "Hurry."
The call ended with a soft click, and I found myself frozen, clutching the phone, the gravity of the situation pressing down on me.
My father, my hero, was in a hospital bed on the other side of the world. I was a surgeon, trained to save lives, but in that moment, I felt utterly helpless. All I could do was pack, arrange for an immediate emergency leave, and get on the first flight home to Spain. To my father's side. To face the unknown.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I quickly made my way through the labyrinth of hospital corridors. Each step felt leaden, as if I were wading through quicksand, the usually familiar scenes around me blurring into insignificance. I needed to get home. To Spain. To Papa.
The first person I saw was my assistant, Paul Madison. His normally cheerful face twisted in concern as he caught sight of me, no doubt reading the urgency in my stride. I stopped in front of him, out of breath, feeling a sickening twist of fear in my gut.
"I need a flight to Spain, Paul," I blurted. "As soon as possible, as few layovers as possible. Can you do that?"
His eyes widened in surprise but he nodded immediately, not even questioning the abruptness of my request. "Of course, Dr. Montivais. I'll get on it right away."
I thanked him before spinning on my heels and making my way to the hospital administrator's office. As I navigated the whitewashed halls, all I could think about was getting home. I could hear snippets of conversations—the daily gossip, upcoming surgeries—but it all seemed so distant, so irrelevant. My world had been blown apart, and I needed to be with my father.
Reaching the office, I pushed open the door without preamble, a wave of cool, air-conditioned air hitting me as I stepped inside. Samantha Chan, the hospital administrator, a kindly woman in her late fifties with glasses perched on her nose, looked up from her paperwork in surprise.
"Tony?" she questioned, worry etching lines into her forehead. "What's wrong?"
In a few terse sentences, I relayed the news, my words tumbling over each other in my haste. Her expression morphed from shock to sympathy as I spoke, her fingers steepled in front of her.
"I'm so sorry, Tony," she said softly, reaching out to pat my hand. "Of course, we'll take care of everything here. You take as long as you need."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as she handed me the sabbatical paperwork. It felt surreal, signing those documents, the cold realization hitting me that I wasn't sure when I would be back.
Walking out of the office, I felt the weight of the situation pressing down on me. Amidst the spiraling worry for my father, one thought remained constant—I needed to tell Jude. Before I left, I had to see her. I hoped I would be able to make that happen, to tell her in person why I was leaving so abruptly.
I raced back to my office, adrenaline fueling my movements, my mind swirling with a thousand different thoughts. Upon entering, I saw Paul, his eyes frantically scanning the computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard.
I mustered a weak smile of gratitude as he turned to me, a mixture of relief and worry in his eyes. "Dr. Montivais, I've managed to book a flight. It leaves Denver at five p.m., with a one-hour layover in Paris before continuing on to Madrid."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Thank you, Paul. You're a lifesaver."
He merely shrugged modestly, turning his attention back to the screen. "It's the least I can do. Now, about your surgery schedule—"
