The pictures yield no answers, but when I’m done dusting, refusing to go to any other area of the house because it feels like more of a violation than what I’ve already done, I plop down on the couch. I don’t know why I wait. I should get up and leave. Zeke didn’t need me as the ambulance drove away with his parents. He wanted me gone. He’s not going to have a personality transplant and come back needing me or appreciating what I did.
But yet, I sit on his worn sofa and wait.
Hours pass by slowly and before long, I feel my eyes fluttering with exhaustion. I should go home and go to bed, but my body is heavy, and before long, sleep pulls me under.Chapter 11Zeke
Vulnerable.
That’s exactly how Dad looks right now in the hospital bed with more wires attached to his body than I can count. My larger-than-life father looks like a withered old man with the scratchy hospital blanket pulled up to the middle of his chest.
“What’s wrong with him?” I almost choke on the words, but my mother is struggling more than I am, and even though staying strong feels impossible, I do my best for her.
“They don’t know yet,” she whispers.
“I did this,” I mutter. “If I hadn’t gotten mad—”
Her soft, trembling hand on my forearm shuts me up.
“He’s been sick for a while. This didn’t happen because you raised your voice.”
I want to apologize for throwing her past in her face, but my mouth doesn’t open. Everything else is so insignificant right now. The ranch, my future… none of it even matters. My frail-looking dad lying in the hospital bed holds all of my focus.
“I tried to convince him to go to the doctor months ago, but you know how he is.”
I nod in understanding. He’s like every other man around here. Not only are doctors expensive, we never have the time to take off work to see one, and we’re men. Men don’t worry about a few aches and pains. It comes with the territory of ranch work. A couple of Tylenol and a good night’s sleep are all we ever really need.
Tylenol and rest aren’t going to work for him now, however. He’s barely fluttered his eyes since we arrived. The doctors have taken blood, run tests, scanned a million things in his body, but we’re told it’ll be hours before they get results. Hours of us waiting, thinking of worst-case scenarios. Hours of worrying what’s wrong and what it’s going to take to fix it.
“I want you to go home,” Mom says after a long sigh.
“I’m staying here.” My voice is firm, but when I look over at my mother and see the bone-weary look in her eyes, I know I’m not winning this battle. I don’t want to add more stress on her, and arguing with her right now would do just that.
“Go home and get some rest. You have to be at work in the morning.”
“I’ll be right back up here when I wake up,” I tell her. “Work can wait.”
“It can’t,” she counters, “and you know it. He would want you to be on the ranch tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Jacobson will understand.” The mention of Nannette Jacobson makes my mind rush right to thoughts of Frankie, and a heavier layer of guilt for the way I treated that brown-haired goddess tonight sits like a brick in my stomach.
“But the cows won’t,” she argues. “Get some rest, get your work done, and then if he’s still here tomorrow evening, stop by to visit.”
There isn’t an ounce of hope in her voice when she speaks of him being well enough to go home tomorrow. He’s unconscious and has been for hours. There won’t be a miraculous recovery for my dad, and it’s that fear settling inside of me that gets me to stand. I don’t want to picture him as anything other than the strong man that raised me. The man that would lift me over his head without much effort until I was twelve. Seeing him like this, it kills something inside of me.
“I’ll bring you some things from home tomorrow.” I press my lips to her temple as she clutches my arm. I wait for her to be ready to release me before taking a step back.
My head fills with thoughts of Frankie as I drive home, and I even contemplate stopping by her house if only to watch her bedroom window for signs of life, but I drive past the ranch instead. Clinging to her when I’m worried would be worse than what I’ve already done, and I can’t help but wonder if karma is the reason my dad is in the hospital. Has the vitriol I’ve aimed at Frankie somehow transformed into a virus hurting my dad?
I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it all and put my truck in park in the driveway. Exhausted, I climb out and make my way to the porch. The three steps leading to the front door seem a mile high each, and by the time I turn the doorknob to enter, I’m tired to my bones, but I don’t find the mess I wasn’t looking forward to cleaning up. The plate my dad knocked over is no longer littering the floor. The packages from the tubes and needles the EMTs used on Dad are no longer anywhere to be seen, and the house smells like lemons, fresh and clean.