8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
D eclan
The old man clutches his chest, his eyes wide and panicked as he falls to his knees.
But his panic is still nothing compared to the sheer terror in Emma’s voice when she screams, "Grandpa!"
She dashes to him, the mug slipping from her grasp and crashing to the ground.
As the old man bends over gasping for air still clutching his chest, Emma falls to her knees beside him grabbing his shoulder. "Grandpa? What’s wrong? Grandpa please!"
He doesn’t answer although I don’t think he needs to.
The man is clearly having a heart attack.
I immediately bolt into action, rushing to hoist him up.
"What are you doing?" Emma screeches beside me.
"Taking him to the hospital. The ambulance will take too long to get here." Grandpa stumbles in step when I try to get him to lean on me, but he’s light enough that I just sweep him into my arms. I meet my daughter's wide fearful gaze. "Get in the car, Amelia."
This time my daughter doesn’t argue with me, clearly reading the seriousness of the situation. She nods and turns, dashing for the car
Emma jogs ahead of me too and opens up the back door so I can lay her grandpa on the seat. She climbs in beside him while Amelia climbs in at the other side leaving the front seat empty.
Then I get in my seat, turn in the ignition, and bolt out of there like hell is on my heels.
Throughout the ride, I keep my eyes on Emma and her grandfather through the rearview mirror. The man’s eyes are squeezed shut and his breathing is shallow. His hand is still on his chest, periodically releasing groans of pain. But at least he’s still breathing and that’s the important part.
Emma was previously demanding answers about what was going on with him but she quieted down after I shook my head at her in the rearview mirror.
Her grandfather can’t answer any of her questions. I know the questions are probably her only outlet for the terror roaring inside her but it’s not helping.
Grandpa needs to focus to keep himself breathing.
Amelia watches the older man apprehensively and pats his side every once in a while. She meets my eyes, her own fear trembling out of her gaze. Questions light in her warm brown depths.
I nod at her, trying to induce an assurance I don't feel.
He’ll be ok , I mouth.
God, I really hope I didn’t just lie to my daughter.
The hospital is a fifteen-minute drive away and I zoom right up to the emergency entrance rolling down my window and shouting," We need a gurney! Someone is having a heart attack."
A nurse who had just finished escorting an older woman into a car nods and runs back inside through the sliding doors.
I hop out of the car and Emma’s door opens too. She’s talking to her grandfather in low tones as the hospital sliding doors open once again, revealing an army of nurses pushing a gurney up to the car door.
Emma stands aside as they carry her grandfather onto the gurney, throwing out instructions to each other.
After strapping him in, they begin wheeling him.
We hurry right alongside them and the young nurse from before turns to me.
"What happened?" she asks.
"We were having a conversation at his home. My daughter and I that is. And then he started holding his chest and collapsed."
She nods and I notice one of the other nurses, a male, attaching nodes to read his vitals. "Certainly seems like a heart attack."
"Yeah, we figured."
"What are you, his son? Or son-in-law?"
"No, I’m…" I don’t know how to explain it. I'm not family and I’m not a friend either. I just met them. "I’m nobody. That’s his granddaughter over there."
She turns to glance at Emma who is pale-faced and hasn’t taken her eyes off her grandpa.
The nurse nods. "Alright. Well take him in now and get him stabilized."
"He’ll be okay right?" Emma asks as the nurse gives her a kind smile.
"We’ll try our best."
And with that, they wheel him in through curtains that swish closed in our faces.
There’s silence for the beat of a few seconds and then Emma lets out a ragged breath.
"Oh God." She puts her hand over her face and her shoulders tremble. "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. I knew this would happen. I knew something terrible would happen. This is all my fault."
"Hey hey." I head over to her holding her elbows and drawing her arms down from her face. Her eyes are filled with tears and I’m not sure why but it makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest. "Stop that. A heart attack is no one's fault."
"You don’t understand." Her lips quiver, her voice shaky as she cries harder. "I should have been here. He doesn’t like going to the doctor so I should have been here to make sure he got regular checkups. I should never have gone to California."
I'm not entirely sure what she's talking about but I feel a powerful need to soothe her grief. I can't stand watching her cry anymore.
"It’s not your fault," I tell her firmly, tipping her chin so she can meet my eyes. "It’s not anyone's fault. And don't worry too much. He’ll be fine."
"How can you know that?"
"I just know," I tell her with a confidence I don’t feel.
Through the curtains, we hear yelled-out but muffled medical jargon and the clatter of movement. The chatter from the next-door hospital rooms only lends to the cacophony surrounding us.
The tears flowing from Emma's big blue eyes remind me of a waterfall, and my chest aches.
Without thinking, I draw her into my arms, hugging her tightly. I want to block it all out for her.
Her body stiffens for a brief second, and then she wraps her hand around my waist, sobbing into my chest.
I absorb her cries as Amelia looks at both of us. My daughter is teary-eyed too. I open my arms for her and she walks forward joining in the embrace.
After the sobs subside, I direct Emma to a seat next to the wall allowing my daughter to sit next to her. I lean against the wall.
And then we wait.
The clock ticks by in the corner accompanied by the constant hum of machines. A sterile smell overpowers my senses. The low din ebbs and spikes with the tension in our bodies, our heartbeats syncing to the clock. Waiting.
Our eyes are focused on the curtains, watching people move in and out of them.
An hour passes. Two. The sun shifts in the sky, casting right on us through the large opposing windows.
I cross my hands over my chest, and I notice Emma clasping her hands in front of her. Her eyes are also shut, lips moving in patterns.
I’m not sure but I think she’s praying.
I can’t remember the last time I prayed. Probably when I was twelve, around the time of my grandmother's death. When she died anyway, despite my constant beseeching, I figured things like prayer were a waste of time.
But now, for Emma, I send a quick one up to whoever is listening
Let the old man be okay.
Just as I think it, the curtains open and a short man in scrubs and a face mask walks out. Emma bolts to her feet. I straighten up too, while Amelia remains sitting.
"How is he?" Emma's hand shakes as she asks the question, fear leaking out of her pores. Part of her probably didn’t want to ask, scared of what the answer would be. But she asked anyway.
The doctor offers her a little smile, and just like that some of the tension bleeds from our muscles.
"We’ve managed to stabilize him," he says, the words punctuated by Emma's quick intake of breath. "However, the damage is already done. He has what we call severe atherosclerosis which means that the arteries supplying blood to his heart have been compromised. We’ll need to put a stent in, which would require surgery."
"Surgery?"
"Yes. But not to worry it’s a very common surgery and relatively safe. We can get him scheduled right away."
Emma swallows, her eyes move rapidly, and then nods. "Can I go see him?"
"Of course." The doctor gestures to the curtains. "The nurses are cleaning him up, but you should be able to go in a bit."
"Alright. Thank you, doctor."
He nods and gives me a curious look before heading off.
Emma hugs herself and physically holds herself together while her shoulders tremble.
"So he’s ok?" Amelia asks and Emma turns to her. Emma pauses and blinks as though she completely forgot we were here.
"Yeah, it looks like it." She offers Amelia a brave smile and then glances at me.
I can still see the bitter fear in her eyes. She knows Grandpa is not out of the woods yet.
"He’ll be fine," I tell her again and I don’t know if that helps but she does smile again.
"Thank you," she says. "And thanks for bringing me here. And staying."
Is that our cue to leave? I nod. "No problem. Thank you for watching my daughter. Today and before."
She nods and then gestures behind her. "I’m going to go in there now. I’ll see you later, Amelia. And…" Her gaze shifts to me, questioning.
"Declan," I offer, hardly believing it’s the first time I’m giving her my name. It feels like we're already past that at this point.
She nods. "Declan. I’ll see you both around."
"See you," Amelia answers for the both of us.
Emma waves as she walks away, disappearing behind a curtain.
"Is her grandpa really going to be okay?" Amelia asks me quietly.
"I think so." We should be leaving but I still feel vaguely unsettled like there’s something unfinished.
Even now I can picture the sadness and despair in Emma's eyes when she turned away, the tension still in her spine.
"Wait here." Without thinking, I head to the nurse station tapping the table lightly when I reach.
Three nurses, two women and a slender man, fall silent and stare at me. The older woman practically gapes.
"The hospital bill," I say. "How much is it?"
"Erm... we don’t know," she responds. "We haven’t tallied it up yet plus we have to send some of it to insurance..."
"Put this card on file," I say, pulling out my black card and placing it on the table in front of her. "Anything comes up, just charge that."
"Oh...ok." She seems a little flustered as she reaches for the card. The male nurse sizes me up and I raise an eyebrow before he looks away. The nurse with the card then starts typing up the details as I give her the billing information.
Once I'm done, I return to my daughter. Thankfully she waited for me in place, eyes trained on the curtain.
"Let’s go," I say, directing her to the car. Part of me is reluctant to leave Emma here alone, but I don’t think we should stay either.
On the car ride home, I finally remember the argument with Amelia.
"Did you mean what you said?" I ask quietly, the car humming. "You hate that I have custody?"
Amelia looks down at her hands and purses her lips. I prepare myself. I won’t lie, that comment cut deep. I’m not prone to emotionality but hearing my daughter say that…
"I love you, Dad," she says, finally looking at me. "But the truth is that sometimes I hate when I'm with you. I feel like I’m in prison. You just keep me locked up and don’t let me do anything or have any fun. I have to take Sandy everywhere, and sometimes I just want to be by myself."
She sighs. "I don't like any of Mom's fashion stuff, but at least when I go to work with her, she lets me move around on my own."
"Your mom gives you too much freedom," I say. "And I'm only like this because I don’t want anything to happen to you. You get that, right?"
"Yeah." Amelia sighs heavily, lapsing into another silence.
I'm quiet too, but my mind is working. No matter what, I will keep protecting my daughter. Still, I don't want her to be miserable for the rest of this trip, either. Or the rest of her childhood, for that matter.
I need to figure something out.