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“Of course,” Nathan replies.
“Hi, Mom, is everything ok?” I ask, waiting to hear her familiar voice on the other end. But, instead, her usual cheerful tone is almost unrecognizable as she speaks through a stifled cry.
“Mom, I can’t understand you. What’s wrong?” The panic is now evident in my voice.
“It’s your father,” she manages to sob, and my eyes widen in horror.
* * *
A few hours later, Nathan and I are almost back in our hometown of Greenwich. It’s raining wildly, ironically matching the abundance of tears cascading down my cheeks as the phone call with my mom plays on an endless loop in my mind.
I lean my head against the cool glass window, looking for comfort from anything.
After my mom was able to control her crying and take a few composing breaths, she told me that my dad had suffered a minor heart attack.
He had been cooking dinner with her at home, when he violently reached for his chest before crashing to the floor. My mom immediately called for an ambulance, and they rushed him to the emergency department where the doctors were able to stabilize him. The team on hand had insisted my mom would be fine to go home and sleep in her own bed, but she had told them the only place she would be sleeping was by my dad’s side, just like she had done for the past twenty years. Once everything had settled down, she called to let me know what was happening.
I had told her I would be there as soon as possible, but the second our call ended, I realized there was no way for me to get to them. Besides the fact that I was pretty sure I had just drunk at least half of the contents of the punch bowl inside, I knew there was a bigger issue. No car.
So, amid tears, I told Nathan the whole conversation I had just had with my mom. Without even having to ask him, he grabbed my hand and led us back through the frat house, which still had an immense number of people packed inside, until we eventually squeezed our way through the front door. As soon as we were outside, he picked up the pace and took us down to the end of the road where his car was parked. Neither of us said anything as Nathan started driving in the direction of Greenwich.
He kept his right hand tightly wrapped around mine the whole drive and continuously told me that everything was going to be ok.
“I know,” I said over and over again, not believing my own words. My mind kept displaying different images of my dad. Memories once forgotten were clear as day.
Why him?
My dad was the one who taught me how to ride a bike for the first time. The one who bought a record number of Girl Scout Cookies so my troop would win the grand prize trip to California. The one who never missed any of my tennis matches, even the away ones. And the one who picked me up from kindergarten early to take me to get ice cream after I was traumatized that Bobby McClain had kissed me smack on the lips, thus giving me cooties.
There was never much talk about it, but I knew he grew up not having a considerable amount of money, which is why he did everything in his power to give his children the life he never had. With nothing but hard work and determination, he started his own architecture firm, Spencer Inc., which he has overseen for thirty years. It is now the top architecture firm in New England. In my unbiased and completely impartial opinion, it’s also the top architecture firm in the country. Maybe even the world. Again, just an unbiased opinion from a girl who loves her dad.
As I stare out the rain-soaked window, I realize we are pulling into the hospital parking lot. Nathan finds a spot by the front entrance and parks his car while still firmly holding onto my hand. I look at my phone to see if there are any more updates from my mom, and except for my phone alerting me that it’s after three in the morning, there are no new texts.
We rush to the hospital entrance, where we both approach the front desk for assistance. An older woman with a friendly face greets us.
“Hi, I’m trying to find which room my dad is in,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. I notice the badge on the woman’s shirt says “Sue.”
“Well, let’s see here.” She turns on the computer in front of her. “What’s the last name, and what would he be here for, dear?”
“The last name is Spencer, and he had …” I can’t say the words out loud.
Nathan jumps in for me. “He had a minor heart attack.” He then squeezes my hand in encouragement.
Sue’s warm smile fades when she hears this, and now sees me in a new and understanding light. “Oh honey, I’m sure everything will be just fine. Your dad is in great hands here.” She types my last name into the computer and quickly locates my dad’s room number. “It says he is in room 405. So, you will want to take the elevator right over there, and when you get off on the fourth floor, take a left, and your dad will be down that hallway.”
“Thank you,” I say as Nathan and I head to the elevator.
As I press the button for the doors to open, I hear Sue yell, “Everything will be ok!” I give her a small smile and then step into the elevator after Nathan.
I push the button for the fourth floor and lean against the wall, closing my eyes for a second as I feel my heart race with dread, not knowing what I will see behind door 405.
“Natalie?”
My eyes flutter open to find Nathan standing directly in front of me, looking down at me with sadness in his eyes.
“Come here,” he says softly, holding out his arms for me to fall into, which is exactly what I do. I snuggle into his sturdy chest, inhaling his familiar scent. His arms wrap tightly around my body, and his chin rests on the top of my head.
I wish we could stay like this forever and that we were anywhere else in the world but here. Here being in a hospital on the way to see my dad who just had a heart attack.
