Always the Last to Know(10)

All my life, there’d been a clear division in the family. Juliet “Perfection from Conception” was Mom’s; I, the lesser child in just about every measurable aspect except artistic ability, was Dad’s. He never seemed to think he got the short end of the stick.

“Please don’t die, please don’t die,” I chanted under my breath. Who else would root for me the way he did? Who else would be so . . . so delighted at every turn of my life? It seemed that all my childhood, Mom had lectured on everything from posture to how to clean the bathroom to grades, and Dad had been right behind her, sweeping away the criticism with a grin or a wink and maybe a trip to the ice cream parlor. Everything he did let me know I was loved, whereas everything Mom did let me know I was wrong.

There was a reason I rarely came back to Stoningham, and when I did, it was only for a day. And there was a reason my father came to visit me in the city, sleeping on the pullout couch, thinking it was the best fun ever. Those were always like old times, when I was little and afraid of thunderstorms, and Dad would tell me stories about girl warriors who rode monsters they’d tamed into battle.

My chest felt like it was being crushed. Where the hell was Alexander? Why wasn’t he calling me?

Finally, after an eternity, I pulled into the UConn Health Center’s giant parking lot, threw my shitty little rental in park and ran to get inside, slipping and sliding, since the rain had frozen when the temperature dropped, and it was a good ten degrees colder up here.

An orderly directed me to the family waiting area, and I ran there, too.

Mom, Jules and Oliver were in the waiting room, Jules looking worried, Mom a thousand miles away.

“Is he—” I began, but my voice choked off.

“Unconscious but alive,” Oliver said, getting up to hug me. “He made it through surgery. We’re waiting for the doctor to tell us what we can expect.”

My sister got up and we hugged awkwardly, too. She stepped on my foot, and my hair got tangled in her earring for a second.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

“Hello, Sadie.” Her voice was expressionless. Shock, I guessed. She was clutching a plastic bag to her chest. I kissed her cheek, and she still didn’t look at me. “Hello, Sadie,” she repeated, and I felt a twinge of sympathy.

“Hi, Mom. You doing okay?” She was younger than Dad, and I’d heard that seventy was the new forty, but still.

“I’m fine,” she said. My hands were shaking, but she seemed utterly calm.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s resting.”

“I’d like to see him.”

“Sure, sure,” said Jules. “Come on. We’re only allowed a few minutes an hour, but come say . . . well.” Her voice choked off, and she took a shaky breath.

We walked down a long, brightly lit hallway and went into a room.

Oh, God. Oh, Daddy.

He was on a ventilator, his face swollen, a cut on his nose, a black eye. His head was shaved and bandaged. “Jesus,” I whispered.

“They had to drill into his head to relieve the bleeding,” Jules said.

He didn’t look like himself, but it was him, all right. Those were his outrageous eyebrows. That was his wedding ring on his left hand, his class ring from Boston College on his right. The scar on his arm from when he had a bad break in college.

“It’s a wait-and-see situation,” Jules said, and her voice was uncharacteristically soft.

I didn’t know where to touch my father; he looked so small in the hospital bed.

“Daddy?” I whispered, putting my hand on his chest, over his heart. “It’s Sadie. I’m here. I love you so much, Daddy.”

That was all I was allowed. A nurse told us he needed quiet, and Jules led me back to the waiting room.

“What happened?” I asked, and Oliver, the diplomat in the family, filled me in.

It was such a Dad move, deciding to go for a bike ride on a nice day, winter be damned. Apparently he had a stroke and fell, then lay there for an unknown amount of time before someone saw him and called 911. They missed the golden hour, that window after a stroke when intervention can make a huge difference. “A pity, really,” Oliver said. The vast understatement of that word made me want to smack him.

My tears kept falling. My mother stared into space. Juliet checked in with the babysitter and sat next to Mom. They murmured to each other. Oliver smiled every time I looked at him. I kept checking my phone to see if Alexander had turned on his—Boston wasn’t that far, and I’d texted, too. But he was one of those people who would forget his phone was off until hours later.

A few friends from St. Catherine’s had texted; I guess Carter had put the word out. Even Sister Mary sent me a message, saying she’d pray for my family.

An hour ticked past. A couple of times, I had to get up and go to the window so I wouldn’t sob in front of my family, in case Mom said something like, “There’s no point in crying, Sadie. Save that for when he dies.” Not that she would. But I kept imagining that kind of thing—Juliet sighing and rolling her eyes at me, or my annoyingly chipper brother-in-law saying something British, like, “Stiff upper lip, Sadie! No need to get all collywobbles!”

Where was Alexander? Where was the doctor? (He probably had a good excuse, like saving someone’s life, but I was still irked.)