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Blair
As soon as the nurse calls me back to Dad’s ER room, there’s no mistaking which one is his. I’d know that southern drawl bitching and moaning anywhere.
Atlas offered to come back, but I told him to stay in the waiting room, because this likely won’t take long. Dad has never stayed longer than it takes for him to sign the AMA.
“Hey.” I slip in through the open door to find an exasperated nurse typing away at her computer while Dad shouts and pulls at his IVs. But this time is a little different.
He breaks out in a coughing fit between outbursts, and his voice is hoarse like he outright swallowed the whole pack of cigarettes. His efforts are in vain because he can barely lift his arm, let alone have the strength to rip the IVs out.
I know I haven’t seen him in a few days, but this is extreme.
“What happened?”
The nurse looks over at me at the same time Dad does—but all he does is glare—and sighs what sounds more like a scoff.
“You the son?”
I nod, and she mutters “thank god” under her breath.
“Infection in his leg,” she says, then holds up a finger and keeps going. “Pneumonia. Heart arrhythmia. Dehydration. High blood sugar that won’t come down. He’s on IV antibiotics and fluids. Can I have your verbal confirmation that he can receive these treatments?”
“No!” Dad shouts at the same time I say “Yes”.
The nurse ignores him, typing something on her computer before pushing it aside and striding towards the door.
“Let the medicine run its course and then we’ll be more than happy to let him go. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to be admitted for the weekend, so let me know if you can get him to agree.”
Then it’s just Dad and me and all the stress that lives rent free in my head. He keeps grumbling, but it’s nothing particularly coherent.
“You should let them keep you,” I say, which earns me a glare. “Let them get you better, then you can go about your merry destructive ways until this happens all over again.”
How many times have we been here? How many times have I driven him to the hospital just long enough for them to pump him full of pain meds and then take him home basically no better off? I’m exhausted.
How long can I keep someone alive who clearly doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether he is or not?
“They just want to rack up my insurance.”
“Be grateful you have insurance! Let them pay for your negligence instead of me for once.”
Dad cocks his head and squints. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I rub my temple. We’ve been over this. Time and time again, and he never sees the problem. “It means that while you’ve been falling apart, while you’ve given up and given in to your anger and self-hatred, I’ve been taking care of everything. Your bills, your bullshit weed dealer, selling your pain pills so you don’t have to hobble your ass out and do it yourself—because you will—and get arrested in the process. Shiloh. You didn’t raise him, Dad. I did.”
“I put a roof over both of your heads—“
“And you told him to his face that Mom would be ashamed of him for being himself.”
Dad slams his mouth shut, grinding his molars like I’ve said something irreparable. But it’s the truth. Dad acted like he was tolerant because he didn’t outspokenly oppose Shiloh’s transition. But he withheld funds and aids to help him; he ignored Shiloh as much as humanly possible while still meeting his basic needs; and then he got drunk one day and ripped my baby brother’s heart out.
Shiloh never forgave him, and I… I’ve just been feeding his bad habits because I was afraid of losing what little family I had left.
But I’m tired. So fucking tired of letting myself be the family punching bag. Both Shiloh and Dad think they can get away with pushing me around because I don’t push back.
Maybe Atlas is right: I matter too.
I left Dad to his treatments not long after that. I needed a break, and he didn’t seem to want me around anyway. Atlas is sitting with me in one of the corners of the waiting room, a hand on my knee as I lay my head on his shoulder. He’s been sipping on a hot chocolate for ten minutes now, and my own is sitting at my feet, still full and steaming.
The doctor said it would take about two hours for the antibiotics and fluids to run their course, and then Dad has to decide whether to stay or go. I’ve spent most of my time texting back and forth with Noah, who is having a cuddle night with some friends from Knockout, and he at least sounds like he’s feeling better. Time is coming close to an end, and I’ve got a pre-emptive headache over getting Dad out of here and home.
