Always the Last to Know(11)

It started to snow, first just a few drifting flakes, then a near whiteout. The TV on the wall showed meteorologists peeing themselves with glee, standing at intersections where cars slid by to report that, yes, it was snowing. If one of those sliding cars hit them, it would be natural selection.

My father’s condition had rendered me vicious, it seemed.

Finally, as I stared out the window at the “polar vortex” (because calling it snow was so yesterday), Alexander’s name flashed on my phone. I told him the grim news.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “You know me and driving with the phone off. But I’ll keep it on, and I’m getting right back in the car.”

“Is it snowing there?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Pretty hard.”

“Here too. Why don’t you call in the morning? Stay in Boston tonight. The forecast is eight to twelve inches.”

“That’s what she said.”

My jaw clenched. “Not now, Alexander.”

“Sorry. Just trying to make you laugh.”

“I know.” I paused. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I’m so sorry about this, babe. I know how much you love your dad.”

The tears started again, stinging the now-raw skin under my eyes. “Thanks, honey,” I said, my voice husky.

“Love you, Sadie.”

“Love you, too.”

I went back to rejoin the family. No one looked up.

“No word from the doctor?” I asked.

“Alas, no,” said Oliver.

Alas? I tried not to be annoyed, but Oliver . . . he was perfectly nice. If he lacked substance in my opinion, I guess it didn’t matter. He was a good father, a good husband, and a brilliant son-in-law, at least according to Mom.

I Googled “stroke with cerebral hemorrhage” on my phone, then decided it would only lead to terror. May as well hear from the doctor first. I sighed. Studied my family. I’d seen them at Christmas, just a few weeks ago, but that seemed like millennia now.

Jules looked frazzled, which was rare, but who could blame her? Her hair was perfectly straight, smooth and dark blond, shoulder length, but now it was tangled, as if she’d been sleeping. Her clothes were wrinkled, too. Usually, she was so put together—her personal style could be called understated hip. Always quality stuff, always a little boring unless you looked closely and saw that her shirt was asymmetrical or she was wearing a wicked cool silver ring. As ever, she was Mom’s guard dog, sitting by her side, reminding her to drink some water, offering her a Life Saver.

She didn’t offer me a Life Saver.

And then there was Oliver, terribly handsome as always, brown hair, green eyes, his teeth blindingly white and straight (he’d gotten braces when he and Juliet were engaged, succumbing to the pressures of American orthodontic standards). He was scrolling through his phone, and I wanted to rip it out of his hands and hit him on the head with it. Every time he caught me looking, he gave that knee-jerk smile. Oliver, I wanted to say, my father might be dying and I realize I’m probably the only one who would really miss him, but could you stop flashing your perfect teeth at me? He’d always been nice to me . . . and also had never made an effort to do more than exchange pleasantries. Then there was the way Juliet showed him off, like he was a prize cow at the state fair. “This is my husband, Oliver Smitherington.” It was that last name, probably. How could you have sex with someone with such a silly last name?

And Mom. Right now, she was a frickin’ statue, her blunt white bob perfectly in place, mascara unsmudged by tears. Why would she cry? She practically hated my father. Tolerated him at best, and while it didn’t feel great to think of my mother as a user, she had sure used Dad. His name, his hard-earned money. She hadn’t had her own job till last year.

That being said, she looked pale and alone right now. I’d expected Auntie Caro, Mom’s closest friend, to be here, since they’d been besties since before I was born. But no. Mom just stared into the distance, probably planning a tag sale to get rid of Dad’s things.

“How are you doing, Mom?” I said.

“Fine.”

“This must be very hard for you.”

She blinked. “What’s that, Sadie?”

“This must be hard for you,” I repeated more loudly, getting an evil look from Jules. “Having your husband of fifty years in a life-threatening situation. Brain bleed. Surgery.”

“I don’t need a summary, Sadie. Of course it’s hard.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Juliet told me.

“Well, it’s a little odd, all of you stone-faced here. Except you, Oliver.” He smiled again. Jesus.

“Want some sackcloth and ashes?” she asked. “Sorry if we’re keeping it together. You keep doing you, though.”

Finally, the doctor appeared, a tall, handsome African American man wearing scrubs and a white doctor jacket with his name stitched over the pocket. Daniel Evans, MD. Neurosurgery.

God. Brain surgery. Please make it, Daddy. Please don’t die.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We had another emergency right after your . . . uh, Mr., uh . . .”

“Frost,” Juliet and I said in unison.

“Yes, of course. So.” He sat down. “Your father—and husband, Mrs. Frost—had a significant bleed, as we suspected. Right now, he’s resting, as you know. We’re keeping him on the ventilator to help his breathing, more as a precaution than anything else, since he had started breathing on his own again in the ambulance on the way here.”