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It sounds like something terrible, and it is. As I stand outside my father’s hospital room–the one place I’ve been avoiding above all others–the doctor rattles off a series of problems my dad is having that are only getting worse.
“We’re still waiting to see if any of you are a potential match for a kidney transplant,” the doctor says. I look past the doctor, into my father’s private room, a sense of dread growing rapidly in my stomach.
“How long does he have before he needs the transplant?” I ask, my throat tight.
“It’s a matter of weeks,” the doctor says gently. “But we should have the donor results in the next day or so.”
I thank the doctor, letting her continue her rounds as I step toward the double sliding doors that are separating me from my comatose father. I want to run the other way. It takes every ounce of bravery I possess to press myself forward and propel myself through the opening doors.
My father’s hospital room feels like a chapel.Better than a morgue, I suppose, but not by much. It’s as cold as a goddamn morgue in here, and not much noisier. It’s deathly quiet, except for the muted beeping of the machines keeping him alive. An eerie hush descends as the automatic door slides closed behind me, blocking out the regular noises of the hospital’s critical care unit. I wonder how much it costs to be housed in a soundproof room like this. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was at the cemetery, about to make my confession. The illusion is completed by the fact that the same priest whose car I borrowed is here, too.
He sits on the side of the bed, next to my father, head bowed in prayer. I lock eyes on my father first, noticing the tubes and wires going from his face and chest into the different machines hovering around his bed. Machines that help him breathe, machines that measure his blood pressure and heart rate. The thick tube taped to his face, the one snaking down his throat, has to be painful. I can only hope that he’s sedated enough to not feel it. I tear my eyes away from my father, the sight of him almost too much to bear. I’ve been a coward, waiting this long to visit him. True, my family blocked me from coming here at first, but I hardly fought them, did I? I was so mixed up in my own darkness and survival after waking up in the hospital that pushing to see my father seemed impossibly hard. Because I didn’t want to see him like this, the opposite of his usual self.
Augustus Capulet is meant to be strong, and powerful, and a leader. The man lying before me is none of those things, at least not right now.
I can only pray that he recovers.
Speaking of prayer. The priest is still in the middle of his, and now that I look closer, I notice the chain of red and black rosary beads dangling from his palm. I have no idea what he’s praying. Out here in public he wears black slacks and a black shirt with a white clerical collar, no sign of the cassock he was wearing earlier. The man doesn’t look up at me or indicate that he knows I’m here in any way.
It’s kind of a relief, getting a minute to let my heart rate slow after the mad dash from my house. It gives me a moment to slow down and think about where I’m headed after I walk out of this hospital room. Somewhere far, far away from here, that’s for damn sure. I am certain leaving the city is breaking the terms of my bail, but guess what? I’m doing it anyway. Fuck this place. Verona Heights and the larger city of San Francisco are full of people I don’t know if I can trust or not. Even my own family is dubious. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Enzo had my bail revoked to lock me up somewhere he can keep tabs on me 24/7 until he’s managed to wear me and everyone else down. I keep waiting for someone to tackle me here in the hospital.
But the door stays closed.
The machines keep beeping.
The priest continues his silent prayer.
And for the first time in a long time, I join him. It’s been so long that my words are a little rusty, but I bow my head and recite The Lord’s Prayer in a whisper.
Amen.
The priest raises his head when I finish. “Amen.”
“Hello, Father.” I dig around in my purse until I come up with his keys, a scrap of paper through the key ring with the address of Rome’s hotel. “Thanks for letting me borrow your car. You don’t have to worry about any more strange requests. I’m getting out of the city for a while.”
He considers the keys, slips them in his pocket. His eyes meet mine again. “Do you have protection?”
“What, like the pill?” Why not? He’s heard worse in the confessional booth. And I’m pretty sure my father is too comatose to hear our exchange.
The priest smiles slightly in amusement. “No,” he says. “Like a gun.”
My breath hitches. I wasn’t expectingthat. “I did, but then the police arrested me and confiscated it. Pretty sure I’m not going to be able to buy another one so easily.”
The priest nods. He’s been completely sage and cool about this, and it gives me a thrill. Not a gross, inappropriate thrill—just a kind of pleasurable excitement. Maybe someone is looking down on me, after all.
One of the machines by my father’s bed whirs to life and the priest turns to glance at it. It’s just a warning that his saline IV bag needs to be replaced soon. In the process the priest bends over his black leather bag, neatly placed in the chair behind him, and takes out a gun.
He turns it around in his hand, casual as can be.
Finish me off. I’m done for.
Then he reaches back in and produces a box of ammo.
I can’t—I can’t. The gun is a real beauty. It’s black and bronze and huge. It could do real damage. Far more damage than the little starter gun I bought myself in the strip mall. This thing looks like it could blow somebody’s head clean off.
“It’s a Taran Tactical Glock .45,” says the priest. He comes around the end of the bed and passes it to me, handle first. “You’re going to have to be careful with it, especially if you’re used to shooting a .22. The recoil is brutal. The first time you shoot it, I wouldn’t recommend wearing a short skirt. It could knock you flat on the ground, and then you’d be in a situation.”
The priest resumes his position of prayer like he’s a robot shutting down. Is he? Or am I having a complete break from reality? I can’t be, because the gun feels so solid and real in my hand.
