Emergency Contact(79)

“You know, she’s supposed to be the one taking care of me,” Penny said. “That should be the basic qualification of being a parent.”

“I get that,” said Sam. “But sometimes it’s so incidental that these people are the parents. Beyond the biology of it. It’s not as if they had to pass a test or unlock achievements to be the ones making the decisions. Sometimes they’re actually stupid. Certifiably dumber than you, but as their kid you’d never think to know that.”

Sam thought about how scant his own qualifications had been.

They stopped for gas, arriving at the hospital an hour later. Sam drove into the covered visitors parking lot, killed the engine, and awaited further instructions.

“Do you mind waiting out here?” Penny asked.

“Not at all.”

Sam was relieved he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever family drama was awaiting her. Though he would’ve joined her if she’d asked.

Before she hopped out she hugged him. “Thanks,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. Her nose was wet. It was very cute and completely beside the point.

Sam watched as she jog-hopped through the sliding glass doors.

He missed her the second she fell out of view.





PENNY.


The hospital smelled of hospital. The bite of ammonia that was so sharp you immediately wondered what odors it was masking. Penny’s eyes darted around the intake area for someone to talk to.

“Penelope?” A thickset, handsome Mexican dude in ostrich-leather cowboy boots walked toward her purposefully.

“Yeah?”

He stretched out his hand. “Michael,” he said. His face was marred with acne scars but it only added to his rugged appeal. “I recognized you from the picture on your mom’s desk. They wouldn’t let me go up with her because I’m not family.”

“So she’s not dead?”

“No. God no.”

“Is she hurt?”

“No, not exactly.”

Penny shook her head violently. She needed information way faster than he was dispensing it.

“We had dinner. The band was excellent. It was time for dessert, you know coffee, cake, sopaipillas. It was that new Tex-Mex place downtown with the murals. . . .”

“Okay,” Penny said, trying not to throttle him. “You’re too slow and inefficient. Did she get food poisoning?”

Michael shook his head.

“Was there a car accident?”

He shook his head again.

“Is she drunk?”

“No,” he said, and cleared his throat. “She ate a weed brownie.”

Penny couldn’t believe it. “What? Are you kidding?” she seethed.

Michael glanced around nervously.

“What are you guys, like, twelve?”

“She’d never had them before,” he whispered. “And she ate a whole one, and then everyone was dancing so she forgot and ate another part when we all told her you were only supposed to eat, I don’t know, a quarter or an eighth.”

“Are you high?” asked Penny.

“No,” said Michael, insulted. “I don’t do drugs. Nor would I ever drive under the influence. I just snuck her out because she was panicking, and I brought her straight here.”

“Okay.” Penny breathed. “So she’s not in surgery. She didn’t have a horrific accident. She’s not poisoned or dead. She’s just exceptionally stupid and immature even though it’s her fortieth fucking birthday.”

Penny felt bad about cursing at a stranger except that the power dynamic here was clear. Michael and Celeste were in big, big trouble.

“I thought you should know,” he reasoned. “If it was my mom I would want to know.”

Penny was certain Michael’s mom wasn’t nearly as harebrained and melodramatic.

“Also, your mother and I are dating,” he said. “I don’t know if that’s appropriate for me to say.”

“How old are you?” she asked. Penny would’ve guessed twenty-five.

“Thirty-two. How old are you?” he asked.

“Eighteen,” she said. “Are you married?”

“No!”

“Okay, well, it’s nice to meet you,” she said begrudgingly. And then, because there was nothing else to do for it, they shook hands. His palms were calloused.

“You too. Circumstances notwithstanding,” he said solicitously. “I hope I did the right thing.”

Penny rolled her eyes and sighed. “You did,” she said. “Thank you.”

“She insisted someone tell you not to come to the restaurant.”

“Okay,” said Penny. “Thanks.”

She checked in with the receptionist, a short black woman with freckles even on her lips.

“Can you tell me the status on Celeste Yoon? I’m her daughter.”

The nurse checked her computer.

“We’re observing her,” she said. “She’s on the third floor, and she’s fine. We won’t be keeping her overnight. In fact, we’re wrapping up paperwork right now, and she’ll be discharged shortly.”

“Thank you,” she said, walking back to Michael.

“She’ll be down soon,” she told her mom’s boyfriend. He exhaled audibly.