When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(6)

“Exactly.”

“You don’t need that,” Carmen said.

“I know.”

“You need the fairy tale.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “That isn’t here.” She looked out the windshield at the neighborhood surrounding the hospital. It was quiet enough, but flat and boring. No rivers or lakes, mountains or ocean in sight. “This place is depressing.”

“I remember.” Carmen had come for a few days after the stroke and left once they knew he was going to make it.

Brooke’s phone buzzed with an incoming call. “That’s the doctor. I gotta go.”

“Go. Call me back.”

An hour later she was allowed to go in and visit her father in the ICU. He was sent there after surgery because his blood pressure was low, and the surgeon opted to keep him on the ventilator overnight with the hopes of weaning him off the machine the following day.

Brooke hesitated as she walked into the room and to his bedside, making sure she didn’t get in the nurse’s way.

She slid her hand into her father’s swollen fingers and squeezed. “Hey, Daddy. It’s me. You did great. You just need to rest up and get better now.”

He didn’t move, didn’t bat an eyelash.

The soft push and flow of the ventilator and the beeping of the monitor watching his heart rate filled the room with noise.

It was hard to believe that three short years ago, this man was riding his motorcycle and splitting lanes in traffic acting like he was James Dean. “You pulled a couple of bad cards,” she whispered to the room.

Ten minutes later the nurse let her know she’d call if anything changed. It was Brooke’s cue to leave.

A kiss to her father’s forehead, a promise to see him the next day, and Brooke exited the hospital.

Outside, the temperature had risen. She walked to the rental car and climbed behind the wheel. “Now what?”



Her phone rang.

Brooke’s eyes shot open, her pulse instantly in her throat. Not bothering to look at who was calling, she answered. “Hello?”

“Miss Turner?”

“Yes?”

“This is Lily . . . your father’s nurse tonight. We think you should come to the hospital.”

“Oh, God . . . what happened?” Brooke’s feet were already on the floor, her hand reaching for the light on the bedside table.

“Your father is alive. Just very sick. He spiked a fever. His blood pressure is low. We have him on medication to support it. His kidneys are failing.”

Tears were starting to gather in the back of her eyes. “Is he going to die?”

“Not if we can stop it. But it is a possibility, which is why I’m calling. Can someone drive you here?”

“I’m . . . no. I’m okay. Not far.”

“Okay. Take a deep breath. You have time. I’ve already cleared it with my charge nurse. I have a chair in the room for you.”

Brooke grabbed the pants she’d worn during the day and was shoving her legs inside. “Thank you.”

“Stay calm.”

“I will. I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

Brooke disconnected the call, threw her clothes on, slipped into a pair of flip-flops, and ran out the door. Once in the car, she realized she’d left her cell phone on the bed. She gripped the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

Back in the condo she retrieved her phone and a power cord. Then, she walked into her father’s bedroom and found a rosary he had sitting on his nightstand. The symbol meant nothing to her, but everything to him. The back of her throat filled with emotion so strong she choked. The sound that came out of her resembled a wounded animal.

“Take a deep breath,” she told herself.

She retraced her steps to the car and pulled out of the driveway.

Hospitals changed in the middle of the night, and yet the ICU did not. Yes, a few of the lights in rooms were dimmed, but most were on, curtains pulled back so the nurses could see the patients without having to walk inside. Privacy wasn’t a priority for the critically ill.

Brooke stood at the open door of her father’s room.

Unlike a few hours before, this time her dad had half a dozen more IV bags and pumps and machines hooked up to him. Looking at him, she didn’t notice much of a difference. He was still on the ventilator, his eyes closed. His arms were loosely tied to the sides of the bed.

“You must be Joe’s daughter,” the nurse said when she noticed Brooke standing there.

She didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she nodded.

“I’m Lily.”

“Everything was okay earlier. How did this . . .”

“His blood is infected. Bacteria in the bloodstream is never good.” Lily waved her hand at the montage of medication being pumped into her father. “We’re doing everything we can to reverse it. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will tell.”

Brooke approached the bed, reached for her father’s hand. The swelling in his fingers seemed to have doubled. “Why is he tied down?”

“We eased up on the sedation since his blood pressure is low. Sometimes he reaches for the tubes.”

That wouldn’t be good. “Can he hear me?”

Lily offered a smile. “He can. But don’t expect much.”