Indigo Nights (Nights #3)(13)

My father had had a heart attack last year but had recovered well. He’d been lucky. The third voice mail was from my dad’s wife again. The message was clearer. They were at the hospital. My stomach began to churn as I spiraled into worst-case scenario. Was he still alive? Was I too late?

Guilt and fear ran through my veins.

Passing through the lobby of the hotel, I glanced around to see if I could spot Dylan. I wanted to tell him about my dad. To tell him that I wouldn’t be on the plane. It was a stupid thought. He’d been a one-night stand. An epic one-night stand, but we weren’t about to start sharing sob stories.

It was early so there wasn’t a line for cabs. I looked up at the heavens, grateful for small mercies.

In the taxi, I called my brother. It went straight to voice mail, so I called Marissa back. Voice mail again. They were probably speaking to each other. Normally I’d be pleased. Their relationship wasn’t a strong one, but the fact they were speaking this morning must mean things were very wrong.

The cab wasn’t going fast enough.

“How long now?” I clicked my seatbelt, hoping that it might be a hint that I was ready to go a little faster.

“About thirty seconds less than the last time you asked.” The cab driver pulled up at a light.

I was sure I smelled of sex, but I hadn’t had time for a shower. I grabbed a hairbrush from my bag and started to work through some of the tangles Dylan had caused the night before. Guilt churned in my stomach. If I’d thought to take my phone with me, or if I hadn’t been so stupid as to go up to Dylan’s room, I would have known my father was being taken to the hospital sooner. There was a reason I didn’t do one-night stands. And now I was being punished for it.

I needed to call my sponsor. My thoughts were spiraling out of control, and I knew that alcohol would calm me down, dampen the noise of the voices in my head—it would stop the guilt of not having my phone with me last night, the guilt of enjoying myself while my father was sick, and the shame that right then, I wanted to be on a plane, sitting next to Dylan, not in a cab racing to the hospital.

Nausea washed through me as I pressed dial. My sponsor was in London so would be wide-awake. It went straight to voice mail.

I’d been in Alcoholics Anonymous since I’d moved to London from Chicago. My brother had gone with me for the first few times, loitering outside, there to catch me when I fell apart. But I hadn’t. AA gave me belief that things would be better, and with every meeting, I got stronger. I’d not had a drink since my first meeting. I’d learned that preventative action was the key to staying sober. I didn’t get the urge to drink anymore, because I never let it get that far. I controlled my environment, so I wasn’t exposed to any kind of pressure to tempt me to drink. Last night I’d given up that control and now I was paying for it. In some ways I was lucky I was in a cab on the way to a hospital. There was no temptation right in front of me. I wasn’t quite sure whether I’d be able to resist if there had been.

We pulled up outside the hospital and I shoved some money at the cab driver and ran through the sliding doors. I should have listened to the rest of my messages. They would have told me where I should go. After several wrong turns, eventually I raced down the right corridor toward my stepmother.

“Oh God, Beth. I thought you’d be in London.”

I scanned the corridor. There were several sets of double doors left and right. “Where is he? Is he okay? Can I see him?” My pulse was pushing through my skin.

“Yes, he’s fine.” She took my arm and we started through one of the double sets of doors. My stepmother and I hadn’t had any kind of relationship until my father’s first heart attack. His condition had brought us together, given us common ground.

“My flight was cancelled. Is he okay?”

“It wasn’t a heart attack. They think it was just anxiety.”

No wonder she was so calm. “Anxiety?” It was as if someone had opened a pressure value, tension seeped away from my muscles, the voices in my head softened, and the fog began to clear. And it had happened without alcohol, without me having a drink.

She shrugged. “He’s getting older. They said it’s common to mistake it for a heart attack. I just have to sign some paperwork and he’ll be out. You didn’t have to come over. Didn’t you get my message?”

My stomach twisted. I should have reacted more logically when I got the missed calls. Maybe not rushed right over here and missed my flight. Would Dylan be wondering where I was? Would he care? He was probably relieved he didn’t have to have some awkward goodbye, see you around moment. I’d spared him that.

Why was I focusing on Dylan when I should be thinking about my family?

“Daddy, what have you been up to?” I forced a smile as I made my way into his room.

“I told her I didn’t need to come to the hospital, but she wouldn’t listen.” His mood was normal at least. “When am I getting out of here, Marissa?”

Marissa glanced at me as if to say See what I have to put up with? But I knew she loved my dad and I was grateful for that. He deserved it. My mom had been killed in a revenge attack because my dad was a cop. I was sixteen and my brother was eighteen. If it were possible to die of guilt, my dad would have been taken from us a long time ago. Marissa had been good for him.

The day of my mother’s funeral was the day I had my first drink, and I’d quickly learned that alcohol took the edges off reality. I wasn’t sure I grieved my mother’s death before I got sober. I just buried all my feelings at the bottom of an ocean of alcohol. The hurt wasn’t as sharp when my head was dizzy with champagne, or wine, or vodka, or gin, or rum, or . . . I could slip into a different world where I didn’t have to think about my mother’s death. When I finally got sober, all the pain had still been there, perfectly preserved. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get over it, but I was learning to live with it, sober.