Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(72)

On the floor, Dad shuts his eyes. “Oh, you know. On and off. For ten years or so.”

Ten f*cking years? He has to be shitting me.

“More on than off these last six.” He blows out his breath. “I was losing my edge. I had to do something.”

“Christ.” I can’t breathe.

“Blake.” He motions me close. “Look. I was going to tell you. I meant to.”

He was going to tell me? I don’t even know what to say to this. The thing he’s talking about—it’s just not possible. I don’t believe it.

“When I was twenty and thirty, I didn’t think anything of doing ninety hours a week. But then I hit forty.” His hand curls around me. “It was like I hit a wall. I needed something to keep my edge. And Peter and I…”

“You’re f*cking kidding me,” I say. “Peter knew about this, and he let you do it?”

And that’s when Dad breaks. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t moan. But his face collapses.

“God, Blake. Why do you think I couldn’t tell you? You think Peter had a heart attack at forty-five for no reason? He didn’t just let me do it. He was doing it with me.” He gasps for air. “How could you live with me once you knew I killed him? I can’t even live with myself.”

I don’t even know what to say. “You told me you wanted to go on vacation.”

He shakes his head. “Vacation. Rehab. Whatever.”

“What about tonight? You just shrugged and told me not to worry about you. You didn’t tell me.”

He opens his eyes, meeting mine. “I killed Peter.” There’s a stark coldness inside him. “You think, once you told me, I’d kill you, too? I’d rather f*cking die.”

He just might.

It’s weird. All this time I’ve been telling myself that my father is stronger than I am. That the last thing I want is his disappointment. That I can’t tell him that I have a problem, because if I do, I might lose his respect.

I was right. There are no gods, just us shit-stupid mortals.

I take hold of his hand. “You stupid f*cker,” I say. “I’m never going to stop being proud of you. I’m never going to stop loving you. So live. Live, you stupid bastard.”

I hear the door open in the distance. I hadn’t even realized that the doctor was here. Tina must have let him in. Dr. Wong comes in at a half jog and leans down beside my father.

I expect him to take his pulse or examine him, but apparently that’s old school. He pulls out a phone and snaps a little plastic alligator clip on his finger.

“Are you experiencing chest pain?” Dr. Wong has a soft, sweet voice. It’s almost instantly calming. I can already tell he has a great bedside manner.

“It’s cliché, but…it’s like there’s a damned elephant sitting on my chest.”

“There you are,” Dr. Wong says in his quiet voice. “I told you to stop doing cocaine.”

“Hey, *,” my dad snaps back. “This is a heart attack, not a f*cking teachable moment.”

“Technically,” Dr. Wong says, “I won’t know it’s a heart attack until I see an EKG. Until then, my official diagnosis is teachable moment.”

“Shit,” Dad grumbles. “You’re fired.”

Dr. Wong ignores this. “Once I get an EKG, it turns into a f*cking teachable moment.”

No wonder my dad likes this guy. I can hear the ambulance now, a dim wail in the distance.

Dad grabs my wrist. “Hey.” His voice is getting softer. “About the narrative…”

I look up. His bag of cocaine is still sitting on the counter. I want to tell him to f*ck the narrative. But he’s clutching at my sleeve and he looks even more desperate now.

I stand up and pick up the bag. “I’m throwing out all your stupid cocaine if I have to come through the house with a f*cking dog, do you hear me?” Dad shuts his eyes in relief.

“Live,” I say, “because when you get back from the hospital, I’m throwing your stupid ass in rehab.”

The front windows fill with flashing red and blue lights. The ambulance is here. “Live.” I swipe my hand across the counter, gathering up the remains of the dust that sent him into this latest attack. I slide the plastic baggie into an oven mitt, obscuring it from prying eyes.

“Love you too, *.” His voice is weak. “Check my bathroom cabinet. And the nightstand.”

The EMTs are hustling through the front door, pushing a gurney before them. Dr. Wong meets them at the front and directs them as they strap my dad in. It doesn’t seem real. None of it seems real. Their boots crunch on glass. Dr. Wong hands me a card and tells me that my dad will be at the hospital, that I’m free to follow along.

I walk beside them, bringing him to the ambulance.

“Live, you stupid f*cking bastard,” I tell him, again, leaning over the cot. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” His eyes are shut. But the EMT grabs his head and slips a breathing mask on, and that’s the end of the conversation. I tell myself that it can’t be that bad—that if he’s talking and cracking jokes, this can’t possibly be the end.

I’m pretty sure I’m lying to myself. I wait in the cold night air until the EMTs slam the doors shut, until they strap themselves in their seats, until the lights seem to flare all the more brightly, and they let the sirens blare, briefly, warning the night that they’re starting off. And then they’re gone.