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Dr. Patel talks for a few minutes while I steady myself against a wall. My father had a heart attack? But he runs and stretches and Mumsy even convinced him to drink kale smoothies once a week. Where is my mom? I can’t keep track of her. Hell, Papa barely can, and he’s been married to her for more than three decades.
“I need to see him,” I blurt.
“Absolutely, we’ve got him stabilized.” Dr. Patel indicates I should follow him, and I’m silent as we ride an elevator and then walk down a long, sterile hallway that’s lit in a bright, menacing fluorescent glow. He pauses before opening a door. “We’d like to get him into the operating room as soon as possible.”
I push past the doctor. There, in a bed, is my wide-shouldered, strong father. Only he doesn’t look so robust right now. His skin is a disturbing shade of gray, and his eyes are shut.
“Papa,” I cry, rushing to his bedside. I take his hand in mine, feeling the cold, clammy skin. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths. Discomfort is etched on his face. The tube in his nose is taped to his cheeks and the wires are attached to his arms and the machines are beeping. I can hear the the entire system monitoring his vital signs and the steady drip of the IV. His breathing is slow and shallow.
I can also hear my own heart, pounding in my chest. He opens his eyes.
“Kamari mou,”he murmurs. That’s what he always calls me. It’s a Greek phrase for “my pride,” and the words have never made me sob as much as right now.
He says something in a long string of Greek, words I don’t understand. Even though he’s lived all over the world—and spent years married to my American mother—he always falls back on his native tongue when stressed or upset. He never thought to teach me the language, always insisting that I study Mandarin and Spanish instead during my years at boarding school in New England.
I gently sit on the side of his bed and take his large hand into my two smaller ones. “What happened? How do you feel?”
“Better with this damn oxygen, I guess. I was in the garage watching the tenth lap and then I blacked out. Next thing I knew I was in an ambulance. Apparently, Jack found me on the floor. I don’t remember much, only that I came to on the ride here to the hospital.”
Jack is the team’s engineer. Who else saw my father at his worst? I press my forehead to my father’s hand and tears leak from my eyes.
“Lily, don’t cry, love. I’m going to be fine. They’re going toroto-rootermy arteries and I’ll be good as new. I’m glad you’re here now, though.”
I lift my head and am at least a little reassured to see the twinkle in my father’s deep-brown eyes, probably because he thinks he’s clever remembering the American phrase roto-rooter. “I’m not leaving your side or this hospital until you do. But you need to get into surgery right away. Dr. Patel said—”
“I know what he said, he wants me to go under the knife and I’m okay with it. I managed to hold him off until you got here.”
“I’m here now, so let’s not wait. Let’s get you fixed up and back up north.” Where we can hire the best specialists, where he’ll be comfortable in his own home, and where I can keep an eye on him. “I also need to get in touch with Mum. She’s—”
“Adam and the doctor have already called her, no need to worry. I have to ask you something before I go into surgery, kamari mou. Something important. You must do something for me right now. It’s critical, especially in case I don’t pull through.”
“Don’t think like that!” It’s impossible to hide the crying now.
“We must prepare for the worst. That’s why I need to ask you this favor.”
His unruly gray hair is sticking to his moist forehead. Probably he’s going to tell me to take care of his little dog, Athena, who lives at his home in Connecticut. “Yes, Papa. Anything.”
“You have to go talk to the team. Today. After the race.” There’s a tightness in his voice that he can’t hide, and surely he must know the race is almost over.
“What?” I frown.
“The team. I want them to hear about me and my condition from you. Today. As soon as possible.”
“Okay, I can do that.” Don’t really want to, but I understand why he’d ask me to speak to the guys. I’m his only child, and many of his longtime employees are like family. I grew up with them and worked with them back when I was an intern. A thick lump forms in my throat.
“And there’s something else.” He coughs and I rub his arm.
“Do you want me to get the doctor?” I’m wide eyed as he barks out a few coughs.
He takes a few deep breaths after the fit subsides, holding up his finger and wagging it back and forth. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay!” I squeeze his fingers, trying to will some of my strength—and common sense—into him.
“Hush. It’s a little tickle in my throat from this oxygen.”
“Do you think we should try to get you to New York for this surgery?” My thoughts race ahead, thinking how he’d be closer to the family home in Connecticut.
He shakes his head. “The docs say there’s no time. They barely allowed me to wait for you to get here. This is a great hospital and I trust Dr. Patel. He went to Harvard, you know.”
