That Boy

That's weird. Dad's hands are always so warm.

“Angel,” he says and smiles a little smile at me. I mean really only the corners of his mouth go up a bit, but I know it's supposed to be a smile.

“Daddy,” I smile, “everything's go

He looks straight at me with eyes that seem to say, No, it's not.

Not unlike the look he gave me when he told me that Pookie, our beloved dog, had died when I was nine.

Wait. He doesn't think they will be alright? Or is it just because he knows about Mom? Does he know about Mom?

Is Mr. Mac even sure about Mom?

He looks very tired and closes his eyes, so I sit there, holding his cold hand to my cheek, staring at his swollen face, trying to think positive thoughts, and praying like I have never prayed before.

His eyelids flutter open for a second, and he whispers softly, “Love.” Then he takes a shallow breath. “My Angel.”

His eyes close again.

I keep his hand on my cheek and let him rest.

I'm sure he will need lots of rest.

But I can take care of him for awhile. I mean, he has taken care of me for my whole life. I don't know what we are going to do without Mom, it's going to be horrible, awful, but I'll figure it out. He and I will get through it together, somehow.

Then I look at his chest.

Is he breathing?

My eyes get big and I feel panicked as I watch his chest, waiting for it to rise again, for him to take another breath. I wait for what seems like forever.

Come on!

The monitors start screeching, an alarm sounds.

Nurses and doctors come tearing into the room. I hold my breath, as I sink down into a chair in the corner, pull my legs up on the seat and wrap my arms around them. A nurse grabs me and hustles me out of the room.

I say a new prayer. Don't leave me, Daddy. Don’t leave me, Daddy.

Please don't leave me. You can so not leave me!!!

I say it over and over in my mind, while I sit in the ICU waiting room.

I think that's a horrible name. Waiting room. Sitting around and waiting for someone to live or die. It's terrible. And I will never in my life forget the smell of it. It smells like hospital disinfectant and microwave popcorn. Someone has just made some, like they're having a party. I see two people over in the corner eating it and watching TV. They're even laughing!

Which quite frankly is something I might never do again. I may very well be devoid of emotion.

What is wrong with me?

My mom's dead and my dad could be, and I have not shed a single tear.

My mom is dead. I can't believe I just thought those words. There really has to be some kind of mistake. Can they mix up people in the hospital? Don't they do that with babies sometimes? Maybe in all the commotion, they mixed up Mom. Maybe she's going to walk down the hall and tell me she's okay, that everything is okay, that it was all just a big mistake.

But I don't think that is going to happen.

I feel so, I don't know, twisted.

Speaking of twisted. You know the movie, Twister?

I know, not my typical romantic comedy genre - but when you live in the Midwest - tornados are scary fascinating and in the spring that movie plays on basic cable ever other weekend.

So in the movie, Jo, played by Helen Hunt, keeps saying, They had no warning. And that's why she's out chasing dangerous tornados.

Anyway, I think that's what has happened. An invisible F-5 tornado has just plowed straight through my life - sucking up everything important to me.

AND I HAD NO WARNING.

No menacing clouds, no rain, no hail, no debris.

And I'm the freaking twisted up cow that goes flailing in front of Jo's truck. Like I got picked up way over there and was tossed out of the tornado, landing clear over here, shaking my head and wondering, “What the *#!$ just happened?”

How fitting. I'm the debris.

I look around for Mr. Mac. Did the F-5 suck him up too?

No. He probably went to get Mrs. Mac and Phillip.

Phillip.

Oh crap.

I am such a freaking idiot.

Phillip was really mad at me.

And even though some of the stuff he said pissed me off, as usual, Phillip always has the situation figured out, and I hate to admit it, but he's usually right. Which is why I do get mad at him sometimes. I hate not being right.

Phillip and I never fight. I mean, yeah, I get mad at him sometimes, but we never fight. And that was like a fight. And I said some mean stuff to him. Like I told him I didn't want to be his friend anymore.

Why in the world did I say that? I didn't mean it.

I've got to tell him I'm sorry.

But what if he won't forgive me? What if he hates me now?

He barely spoke to me in the police car.

He probably does hate me.

Regardless of the fight, I mean, he is my best friend, and I don't know what I would do without him.

Especially now.

I mutter another prayer.

Please don't let him hate me. Please don't let him hate me. Please don't let him hate me.

The elevator dings, and I stand up in front of my chair and watch the doors open. Standing inside the elevator is Mr. and Mrs. Mac and Phillip.

I try to read Phillip's face as he steps off the elevator, but I'm unable to judge what he's thinking. I do notice that his eyes don't look angry anymore, maybe there's hope.

Phillip doesn't say anything.

He rushes to me, wraps me in a one armed hug, and pulls me close.

I close my eyes and whimper in his ear. “I'm so sorry, Phillip. Please forgive me, please forgive me, I didn't mean what I said, please forgive me, please forgive me.”

“Princess,” he whispers back, “you know I could never stay mad at you.”

And that's when the tears come.

Standing there in Phillip's arms, this whole nightmare becomes, well, real.

Nothing is ever real until I tell it to Phillip, I think, why should this be any different?

“She's dead, Phillip.” I sob into his shoulder. “I think he might be dead too.”

Mr. Mac says loudly, “What?”

“He might be dead too. He talked to me, well he said my name, and he sorta smiled at me. I thought that meant he was going to be okay. But his hands were so cold, and his hands are just like Phillip's. They're never cold. Then he stopped breathing, I think. A bunch of alarms went off, and they made me leave. But no one has come out to tell me anything.”

Because Phillip is smoothing down the back of my hair with the palm of his hand, I actually manage to get the words out.

Mr. Mac drops into a chair, runs his hand through his hair, hangs his head down and keeps it there. He's changed out of his, you know, dirty shirt and is wearing a green scrub top. It looks really out of place on him because he's always a very polished suit and tie kind of guy.

Mr. Mac has known my dad longer than I have, I suddenly realize.

We sit in uncomfortable waiting room chairs and wait, and wait, for what seems like an eternity.

Everyone handles the stress of waiting differently. Mr. Mac paces up and down the hall, jingling some change and keys in his pocket. Mrs. Mac plays hostess. She makes us all coffees, and then cleans up a mess that isn't really there. Phillip sits next to me and holds my hands. I just stare into space, my mind in overdrive, trying to figure out how I am going to deal with this.

Finally, a nurse comes out. She tells us they revived Dad. I feel hopeful, but then she quietly adds that his outlook isn't good, and a doctor will be out to talk to us soon.

Shit!

“Is there a chapel here?” I blurt out, feeling a sudden need to have a chat with God.

“Down the hall and to your right,” she tells me.

“I'm go

“Can I come with you?” Phillip asks me. “Or do you want to be alone?”