Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 149209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 746(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 746(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
He makes a squeaking sound and grabs weakly at my hand. I try to stay calm. My head keeps telling me this can’t possibly be happening. My eyes tell me in living, horrific color it is.
“I’m going to grab an aspirin from my bathroom. Stay here. Stay with me. I’ll be right back.”
No response. I pocket my phone and flat-out run across the house, into the master bathroom, then tear into my medicine cabinet. My hands are shaking as I try to open the bottle, but the fucking child-proof cap won’t come off. Finally, I manage, spilling one tablet in my fist, then dash back down the stairs, panting, heart racing.
“Dad?”
He doesn’t respond. Son of a bitch. I have to try CPR. I haven’t practiced this since I did the lifeguard thing at the local pool when I was sixteen. But I do my best to screw my head on straight and start chest compressions and breathing.
I have no idea how long I press and exhale, trying to force air into his lungs and prompt his heart to pick up its own tempo. All I know is that I’m dizzy and exhausted and wondering if I’m making any headway when the EMTs pound on my front door.
As much as I hate to, I tear myself away long enough to answer the door. I can’t acknowledge that my father still isn’t breathing. The professionals are here. They’ll get him going. He’ll be all right.
He can’t die here today.
A trio of uniformed ambulance attendants storm the house with bags and a rolling stretcher.
“Where is the victim?” a capable-looking African-American woman asks in a calm voice.
“Living room.” I point.
The other two EMTs waste no time rushing to my father’s side. I try to follow, but the woman blocks my path. “Tell me what you’ve done so far.”
I trip over my words as I try to explain, but all I care about is reaching my dad’s side. I shove my hands in my pockets. I need something to do. I can’t stand here and merely watch. I come up with the aspirin he was never conscious enough to chew and swallow.
“Do you need this?” I ask her.
She glances over her shoulder. I follow her line of vision. The other two medics have hooked my father up to some sort of heart rate monitor.
The sharp, persistent sound rattles my head and pierces my calm. He’s flatlined.
“No!” I take off to reach his side.
The woman holds me back. “Let them do their job.”
“But…”
I’m not sure what to say. I have zero medical knowledge. Logically, I’ll only be in the way, but… He can’t be dying. And if—oh, god—he is, he can’t be doing it with only strangers to comfort him. He needs family.
“Sir—”
“I have to be with him,” I blurt. “At least let me hold his hand.”
To my right, I hear one of the EMTs sigh as he rises to his feet and approaches me, regret softening his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No! I was talking to him less than an hour ago. We were making plans…”
In the back of my head, I realize I’m speaking nonsense, but I can’t process what’s just happened. I don’t know what to say.
My father can’t be dead.
“Can’t you defib him?” I’ve watched enough medical dramas on TV to know what that means.
The female shakes her head. “That’s not how it works. A defibrillator can’t jumpstart a stopped heart. They stop a heart in an irregular rhythm and try to reset it. But your father is in asystole. There’s no longer any electrical activity, so there’s no tempo to restore. We’re very sorry.”
I stand rooted. In shock.
Dad is gone.
What the hell happened? What the hell am I going to do?
Pain rips through my chest. I can’t breathe.
I have to call Bret and Bry and break their hearts. I’ll have to go to California and bury my father. I scrub a hand down my face. Oh, god. I’ll have to take care of my seventeen-year-old brother, at least until he’s no longer a minor.
I’ll have to face my life without the man whose love and counsel I’ve relied on every one of the twenty-four years of my life.
I clench my fists. Something bites into my palm. I uncurl my fingers. The aspirin.
Gritting my teeth, I’m suddenly choked by grief and anger. I toss the little disc across the room and ignore the female who offers me a sedative. Fuck that.
It seems like hours pass before they lift my dad onto a stretcher and cover his face. It’s all I can do to hold myself together. I feel so fucking brittle. And lost.
Overall, my father was in decent health. I don’t understand.
I grab the arm of the male medic who first pronounced my father dead. “How could this happen? He’s never had any history of heart trouble or disease. He was fit and still young and…”