Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Scout
The call I've been afraid of for years comes at two in the morning. I fumble for my phone, heart already racing before I'm even fully awake. The screen glows harsh in the darkness showing an unknown number with a Port Townsend area code.
My stomach drops immediately. This can't be good.
"Hello?" My voice comes out rough with sleep and rising panic.
"Is this Scout Nash?" A woman's voice sounds professional but tired.
My breath catches. "Yes, this is she."
"I'm calling from Jefferson Healthcare. Your father was brought in about an hour ago with a possible concussion and some broken ribs. He's stable, but he's confused. You're listed as next of kin."
Me? I know I'm the daughter he tends to lean on in times of need, but my older sister Sable is a psychologist. She's not a medical doctor, but she would be my first choice in this scenario.
Not that I have a lot of options when it comes to next of kin.
It's just her, my dad, and a distant aunt who lives in Canada.
The nurse is still talking, saying something about a neighbor finding Dad, his shed collapsing, a possible broken arm, and bruised ribs. All I hear is the roar of blood in my ears and the rushing sound of my world tilting sideways.
"Tell Dad I'm on my way." I rush her off the line. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
Beside me, Silas sits up, shirtless with sleep-mussed hair, rubbing at his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"My dad is in the hospital. I have to get to Port Townsend."
Climbing out of bed, I scurry out of Silas's bedroom, flipping the light on in mine. I'm too worried to pick out clothes, so I grab the first things I find, yanking on jeans and a t-shirt. My hands tremble so badly I can barely tie my shoes.
In my head, I'm spiraling. The shed has been my nightmare for three years. The same goddamn shed I've been telling him to fix since the last big windstorm. It's been leaning dangerously, but Dad kept saying he'd get to eventually.
I should've known better. It was impossible for Dad to fix by himself. I should've insisted on hiring help.
"Ready?" Silas appears in jeans and a black Seattle Havoc hoodie, keys in his hand. "I'm driving."
"Silas, you don't have to do that. It's two hours away. You need sleep and your shoulder needs rest..."
"We're not arguing about this right now." He's already moving, grabbing his wallet from the bowl by the door. Then he stops, looking at me. "You're not dressed warmly enough."
"Oh. I should go get a sweater."
Si is already unzipping and peeling off his hoodie, wrapping it around my shoulders and forcing my arms through the sleeves.
I feel like a doll he's playing dress-up with.
It's odd to be taken care of like this, but I don't try to fight it.
Not when the hoodie smells so strongly of his vetiver and cedar scent. It's still warm from being on his body.
I give him a wobbly smile, pulling him close, pushing up to kiss his lips. He zips up the front of the hoodie as he kisses me back. "This looks good on you. You should always wear my clothes, Pretty Girl."
"Talk to me again in that gruff voice and I'll think about it." I bite my lip.
His eyes flare with interest. "As much as I want to take you up on that right now, I need to grab another jacket. Give me a sec and then we can go."
"So bossy," I chide him. Si doesn't respond because he's jogging down the hallway to grab another hoodie. He reappears, jerking his head to the door. "You ready, baby?"
God, the way he calls me baby makes my insides turn to mush.
"Ready," I whisper. "Thank you."
He pulls me against his chest, hugging me tightly for a few seconds. "Of course, Scout. You're my girl."
Closing my eyes, I want nothing more than to bury my head against his chest and hide from the world. When he pulls away and takes my hand, I have to swipe at my eyes with my sleeve. It's nice to be supported, for however much longer this lasts.
The drive blurs past in dark highways and scattered streetlights.
Silas doesn't try to fill the silence with platitudes or ask questions I can't answer.
He just drives with one hand steady on the wheel.
When I start picking at my thumbnail hard enough to draw blood, his free hand finds mine and he laces our fingers together.
I stare out the window, watching Seattle give way to smaller towns, then trees, then darkness broken only by occasional house lights. We have to go an unusual route around the land because the ferry isn't working at this time of night.
More time for me to be lost in nightmarish thoughts. My mind spins with worst-case scenarios about the shed that's been leaning for years. Every time I visit, I mention it and offer to hire someone to fix it. Dad always waves me off, says he'll get to it and he doesn't like me fussing about it.
Nothing is ever fine in that house. Since Mom died, everything has been exactly the same, but fine isn't a word that remotely describes the situation.
Getting out of the truck is amazing and nerve-wracking.
The hospital smell hits me the second we walk in, like antiseptic and bad coffee.
It's a smell I became intimately acquainted with when Mom was sick.
A nurse with kind eyes directs us to the ER, down a hallway that feels too bright and too quiet at the same time. She points to a curtained area.
I take a breath, trying to prepare myself for what I'll find.
Tom Nash sits propped up in bed with his arm in a sling and his face mottled with bruises that look worse under the fluorescent lights. He looks smaller than I remember, older and more fragile, like a strong wind could knock him over.
"Hey, Scout," he wheezes, like I just dropped by for a casual visit instead of finding him after he was trapped under a collapsed shed for God knows how long. "I wondered when you'd arrive. I-- I didn't mean to scare you."
I can't speak at first. All the words I practiced in the car, the concern and relief and carefully modulated worry, dissolve on my tongue. What comes up instead is something sharper, something I've been swallowing for years.
"I'm okay." He scrubs his hand down the hospital smock, looking embarrassed. "I went out to the shed to grab a step-ladder. Damn thing fell down when I opened the door. One of the new neighbors heard the crash and called 911. It's just some bumps and bruises. Nothing serious."
"Just some bumps and bruises?" My voice comes out strangled. "Dad, you were trapped under a shed. How long were you out there before someone found you?"
He shrugs his good shoulder, wincing slightly at the movement. "Couple hours, maybe. Hard to say. I lost track of time."
"A couple hours?" Something in my chest cracks wide open. It's like all the pressure I've been holding back for years has found a fault line. "You could have died, Dad."
"But I didn't." He sounds almost irritated by my reaction, like I'm making a fuss over nothing. "It was a scare, nothing more. I won't have you making a scene, Scout." He purses his lips. "Maybe I should've put Sable down as my emergency contact."
The casual dismissal is gasoline on a fire that's been banking since Mom got sick. I was sixteen and suddenly responsible for keeping our family functioning while she deteriorated. And Dad? He checked out emotionally.
I spent my college years driving home every weekend to clean and cook and make sure he was eating. I've been making this drive every other month for the past eight years, bringing groceries and paying bills and pretending everything is fine when nothing is fine.
"No need to make a fuss?" My voice comes out louder than I intend.
The curtain does nothing to contain the sound, but I don't care anymore.
The pressure building in my chest hits critical mass and I raise my voice, beyond angry.
"Mom's hospital bed is still in the living room, Dad.
Her shoes are still by the door. Her medications are still in the bathroom cabinet.
You won't change anything, won't fix anything, won't let anyone help you.
And now you're lying in a hospital bed because that goddamn shed finally collapsed like I've been warning you it would for three years! "
Dad's eyes widen in shock. Silas shifts behind me, becoming a solid presence at my back, close enough that I can feel his warmth. He doesn't interject or tell me to calm down, which is amazing given that every single person on this floor can hear just what I'm so upset about.
"Sable and I have been driving out there every month," I continue, voice rising with every word.
"We bring groceries you barely eat. We pay bills you forget about.
I clean that house while you sit and watch TV like nothing matters.
You're just waiting to die so you can be with her.
And I've been letting it go on, because I thought that if I just took care of you enough, if I just did enough, you'd want to live again. "
My dad's face crumples. "Scout, honey, I..."
"No." Tears stream down my face now, hot and furious and cleansing. "I'm done. I'm so angry, Dad. You have given up and I've been enabling it. Tiptoeing around, not saying anything. I'm pissed that it took you almost dying for me to say any of this."
The silence that follows is deafening. Dad stares at his hands while his jaw works like he's chewing words he can't spit out. A monitor beeps steadily in the background. Somewhere down the hall, someone coughs.
Dad whispers, "I want to be different, Scout. You know I do. It's just hard."
"That house is killing you," I say. "I won't watch you drown anymore.
You're moving to Seattle, somewhere close enough that I can help without destroying myself trying to keep you alive.
Sable can check on you, too. You'll get a therapist. You need to start actually living instead of just existing.
If I have to drag you kicking and screaming, you're going to let us help you move forward. "