“Kappas are pig fuckers,” Donaldson says as he holds a bag of fries to his face. “What they did to Boone was shit. He hates being scared and we all know it.”
We all agree, muttering.
I spit into our kitchen sink and see blood. I open the freezer and grab a two-year-old bag of broccoli and lay it on my face. “We got some payback though.”
I stumble into the den and plant my ass on the couch. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.
The team grabs beers from our fridge, and before long, we’re all congregated in the den.
Falcon shakes his head as he plops himself in a recliner. “You look like shit, Hansen, but you took those punches like a pro.”
“MMA gym,” I murmur around my broccoli.
Someone clicks on the TV and hands me a beer.
“I’m proud of us,” I say. “We lost the game, but we won the fight.”
We do a toast for Boone and chant one of our cheers.
“I’m calling some girls,” Donaldson says and a yell of excitement goes up.
I tip up my beer. “We won’t be going to Kappa to celebrate hockey again. We can do it right here. Go Lions!”
21
Julia
After eating at the bar, I take a long shower then starfish on my bed.
I wonder where Eric is. I wonder what was wrong with him.
My phone notifies me of a voicemail and I start, realizing I had it on silent mode.
I push the button. “Hello, this message is for Julia Lauren. This is St. Luke’s Memorial Hospital in Sparrow Lake. Nala Lauren was admitted this evening. You’ve been named as her responsible party . . .”
Not this again.
I hang up and dial the number immediately.
“Hi. I’m Julia Lauren,” I say in a rush when the receptionist answers. “I received a voicemail about Nala Lauren.”
“One moment please.”
I wait, gnawing on my fingernails as she clicks over.
“Yes. She’s here.”
“What happened? Is she okay?”
The last time she was in the hospital, she had her stomach pumped. That was in the spring. I’d found her in her car, unresponsive, and called an ambulance.
“I suggest you come to the hospital as soon as possible.”
I end the call, toss on a sweater and jeans, then race down the stairs.
Taylor and Poppy sit in the den watching a movie.
“I’ve got to get to the hospital,” I say franticly as I snatch my purse off the hook in the hall. “My mom is there and they wouldn’t say how bad it was . . .” My voice trails off.
Taylor’s eyes flare. He gets up and grabs his keys. “I’m on it, love. I’ll take you.”
Relief hits. I can’t imagine calling an Uber and waiting. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”
“Should I go?” Poppy asks.
“I-I don’t know.” I slip on my Converse.
She gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m going. We got this.”
We dash outside and hustle into Taylor’s white BMW 5 Series. I get in the passenger side while Poppy gets in the back.
Taylor squeezes my hand as we pull out. “We’re right here with you, okay?”
I nod, my thoughts tumbling. I spoke to Mom last night. She was in a good mood. She told me she was thinking of trying for a job at the local diner. I didn’t think it would happen, but I wanted to believe it.
Taylor pulls up to the roundabout with the ER sign, and I rush out of the car.
The hospital smells like disinfectant with artificial flowers underneath. Blue and white linoleum floors stretch out in every direction, illuminated by fluorescent lights. People bustle about, some sitting slumped on hard plastic chairs as they scroll distractedly through their phones; others speaking in hushed tones.
A lump rises in my throat.
“I’m here for Nala Lauren,” I say to the older lady at the reception desk. “I’m her daughter and got a call. Can someone tell me what’s happening?”
She runs a finger down a list, then motions to the waiting area. “Someone will be out to talk to you in a few minutes.”
I pace around as Taylor and Poppy show up and rush over. I explain that we’re waiting for a staff member to tell me what’s going on.
“Sit, girl,” Taylor says. “You’re shaking. Come on.”
“I can’t.”
Dread coils around me like a snake.
Something feels different this time.
“Ms. Lauren?”
I look up to see a short man with a receding hairline in a white coat.
“I’m Dr. Amherst.” He gives me a slight smile as he glances around. “Can you come this way?”
The three of us sit down in a small office off the waiting room. It’s bleak and white, and my heart lurches. Is this an out-of-the-way place for doctors to break bad news?
“Julia,” he says, glancing at his tablet. “Your mother has been here several times, as you know. She’s an addict.”
The words are like nails down a chalkboard.