What Happens to Goodbye(27)

“Hard?” I said, walking back to the door and pushing it open for her.
She walked out, adjusting her purse over her shoulder as I locked the door. “I mean, just having to change each time. It’s like starting over. I’d kind of, I don’t know. . . .”
I glanced over at Dave Wade’s, thinking of Riley and her asking about him. There were no cars in the driveway, no signs of life. Wherever he was, he wasn’t at home.
“... miss who I was before,” Deb finished. “Or something.”
Then I’d said nothing: I didn’t know how to respond to this. Instead, I just followed her to the car, and we’d come here. Now, though, as we walked up to the emergency room sliding doors, I glanced at her again, envying her confidence, even in the face of what I knew others thought about her. Maybe it was easier for some than others, though, changing. I hardly knew her at all, but I already couldn’t imagine her being any other Deb than this one.
Inside the hospital, we were hit with that immediate hospital mix of disinfectant and uneasiness. I gave my dad’s name to a squat man behind a glass window, who typed a few things on his computer before sliding a piece of paper across to me that read A1196. The four digits made me think back to that morning, searching for my locker, when my biggest concern had been getting my mom off the phone and out of my hair.
“I think it’s this way,” Deb said, her voice calmer than I felt as she led us down a hall, taking a right. Somehow, she just seemed to know when I needse er to take the lead, like my fear was that palpable.
There were not rooms but cubicles with curtains, some open, some closed. As we passed by, I tried not to look but still caught glimpses: a man lying in a bed in his undershirt, hand over his eyes, a woman in a hospital gown, mouth open, asleep.
“A1194,” Deb was saying. “A1195 . . . Here! This is it.”
The curtain was closed, and for a moment we stood there as I wondered how you were supposed to knock or even know you had the right place. Then, though, I heard something.
“Seriously. You have got to let the roll thing go. It’s done.”
There was a loud sigh. “Okay, I understand the pickles have been well accepted, but that doesn’t mean . . .”
I eased the curtain open, and there they were: my dad, seated on the bed, his hand and wrist wrapped in bandages and gauze, and Opal in a nearby chair, legs crossed, looking irritated.
“There she is,” my dad said. He smiled at me, which was about the most reassuring thing I’d seen, well, ever. “How’s it going?”
“Forget about me,” I replied, walking over to him. “How are you?”
“Completely fine,” he said easily, patting the bed beside him. I sat down, and as he slid his good arm over my shoulders, I felt a lump rise in my throat. Which was ridiculous, as it was obvious this was true, he was okay. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
I smiled, swallowing, and glanced at Opal. She was watching me, her face kind, so kind I had to look away. “This is Deb,” I said, nodding to where she stood at the curtain’s opening, purse over her shoulder. “She gave me . . . She’s my friend.”
Hearing this, Deb smiled, clearly pleased. Then she took a step forward, sticking out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’m very sorry about your accident. Mclean was so worried!”
My dad raised his eyebrows, glancing at me, and I felt myself flush.
“That’s probably because it was me that called,” Opal said. “I’m not exactly known for my poise in emergencies.”

“This was not an emergency,” my dad said, squeezing my shoulder again. I let myself lean into him, breathing in his familiar smell—aftershave, laundry detergent, a hint of grill smoke. “If it had been up to me, I would have just wrapped it and kept cutting.”
“Oh, no!” Deb said, aghast. “You have to get medical attention when you cut yourself. I mean, what about staph infections?”
“See?” Opal pointed at Deb, vindicated. “Staph infections!”
“Knock knock,” came a voice from outside the curtain. A moment later, a plump nurse with red hair, wearing a smock decorated with hearts, came in. She looked at my dad, then down at the chart in her hand. “Well, Mr. Sweet. Just need your card and a little paperwork and you’ll be rid of us.”
“Wonderful,” my dad said, taking the clipboard as she offered it to him.
“Oh, now, don’t say that! You’ll hurt my feelings!” the nurse said, her voice too loud as she smiled widely at him. Across the room, Opal raised her eyebrows. I, however, was not surprised in the least. I had long ago grown used to the effect my father had on females. Maybe it was his longish hair, or those blue eyes, or the way he dressed or carried himself, but it seemed like wherever we went, women were drawn to him like magnets. And the less he reciprocated, the more they did it. It was so weird.
I handed the nurse my dad’s card, then steadied the clipboard as he uncapped a pen with his good hand, scanning the papers in front of him. As he signed, I glanced at the nurse, who beamed at me. “Aren’t you sweet, taking care of your daddy. Is your mom out of town?”
She’d clearly already noticed no ring, but was just doublechecking: this was also a trick I’d seen before, performed by waitresses and hotel clerks, even one of my teachers. So obvious.
“Excuse me,” Opal said suddenly, before I could come up with a response, “but we’ll need to be sure that these charges are sent to our company. Can you help me with that, or do I need to talk to someone else?”