12. Sarah
12
SARAH
Sleep won't find me. Or maybe I'm the one who can't find sleep. Regardless, my eyes are bright and clear, void of any sort of drowsiness as my head continuously repeats the event in my aunt's house this evening.
A part of me still finds it hard to believe my father is alive.
I mean, I got an email from him, but there's a part of me that thought it could be a prank. Or maybe I refused to believe it because, for so many years, I've deluded myself into believing the only reason he never came back for me was because he was dead.
What father leaves their child behind and not once bothers to check on her?
He had to be dead. That's what I've always believed.
That's what has helped me sleep at night when thoughts of him came to me. I convinced myself he didn't stay away because I wasn't important to him, but because he couldn't be here.
To now find out he's been alive all this while and never once thought to come for me until he's dying and needs my help to stay alive?
Yeah, bye sleep.
After my aunt had told me he was dying, all the fight left me, and I went to sit down. He came by my side, explaining to me how he has leukemia and he needs my bone marrow to remain alive.
My first thought?
Rot in hell.
But the pleading look on my aunt's face just wouldn't let me say no to him immediately. The woman, bless her heart, is way too soft. She can't hold a grudge for long. Sometimes I can be like that, too.
So, I said I'd think about it and asked to leave, but trust my aunt to insist I stay and eat.
I've never had a more awkward dinner in my life.
And next came the tales of my childhood after dinner. I wouldn't exactly say it was entirely terrible, but I'm sure I could easily live without them.
Then the constant coughing, each one accompanied by blood in small or large quantities.
All it took was a few minutes of watching him spit into his handkerchief before I bailed, not caring about the look my aunt was giving me.
I needed time to think, and the only person I could think of going to was Ian. A lot good that did me, huh?
Sighing, I roll in my bed and try to shut off my brain from the unnecessary activity it's currently engaging in. It only lasts for a minute before another thought trickles in.
Maybe I should write.
I push off the bed and go to pick up my laptop. I grab a cup of coffee while I’m at it. I'm unable to sleep, so why not?
But it doesn't work.
Every creative word I try to force out just makes my head ache.
Crap. It's moments like this that I wish I had coping vices, but unfortunately, I have none. Or maybe fortunately. Who knows if I'd be able to save my father if I did?
My father?
That word feels strange even though it's in my head.
And have I decided that I'm going to save him?
Can I really step aside and let him die when there's a chance that I can help him?
He said they'll only need my bone marrow, but I've never engaged in any form of surgery before, and the things I'm reading online are not any help.
Apparently, bone marrow surgeries are largely safe, but a couple of people have developed complications in the past. What if I am unlucky, too?
What if I die?
What will happen to Olivia?
I can't do this.
Breathe..
I heed the voice of my inner mind and then continue my research. I find some assuring content, but my mind is still not at peace.
I decide to call Amanda, my doctor friend from New Jersey. We attended the same college.
She picks up on the third ring even though it's very early in the morning.
“Mandy, hey.”
“Sarah?” Her voice becomes clear. From the sound in her background, I can tell she's at the hospital.
“Yeah, it's me. How are you?”
“I'm good! It's been a while. How are you?”
I smile at the excitement in her voice. She and I weren't that close back in college, but we shared a room together. There were four of us in our dorm back then, and we're all successful ladies now. Too bad we don't keep in touch much.
“I'm alright. Sorry for calling so late.”
“Nonsense. I've been thinking of reaching out too, lately, but work has been hectic. Why are you calling so late, though? Is everything okay?”
Here comes the moment of truth.
“Um, I need your opinion on something.”
“Go ahead.”
I swallow, and I muster a good amount of courage before I speak again. “As a doctor, would you advise anyone you know to donate bone marrow to someone?”
“Sarah, what's going on? Are you sick?” she asks worriedly. I hear a door closing from her end, and I assume she's doing that for privacy’s sake.
“No, no. It's not me. It's um, my dad.”
“Your dad? I thought he was dead?”
Yeah, you and me both.
“Turns out he's not.”
“Okay. And he has leukemia?”
“Yes.”
“I'm guessing he wants you to donate?”
“Also yes.”
“Wow.” I hear her blow out a breath. “Okay, as a doctor, I'd assure you not to worry and that the procedure is very safe. Which it really is. But as a friend, I'll say see me before you do it. You have nothing to worry about, really. But I'd like to run some tests on you and confirm you're at no risk.”
“Thank you.”
She remains with me for a while before I eventually end the call with the promise of reaching out.
I call Neville next. We exchanged contact information before I left my aunt's. I find out that his doctor is in New Jersey.
To say I am surprised he lives in New Jersey too is an understatement. All those years there, and we never saw him. But then again, it can feel like a big state.
I also find out that the hospital he's using is the same as the one Mandy works in. I am happy about the new discovery as I end the call.
I'm guessing he called my aunt, because I receive a call from her only a few minutes after I hang up on him, and she thanks me for being so gracious.
I don't tell her I'm not doing anything until Mandy gives me the go-ahead.
When I eventually fell into bed, I slept until noon.
I wake up to a call from Ian.
My head is still a little clogged from sleep when I answer.
“Hello?”
“Sarah, hi.”
“Ian. How are you?”
“I'm okay. I… uh, I called to tell you that I'm back in New Jersey now.”
It’s like I was being slapped in the face.
Words fail me for a few seconds before I eventually gather my thoughts and put up a front.
“Alright. I guess we'll see each other when we see each other, then?”
“Guess so. Take care?”
“You too.”
When he ends the call, I toss my phone very far away and spend the rest of the afternoon moping in the bed. He would get in front of a truck to save me but he'd rather leave than ever be with me.
Well, guess what? I'm done with him, too.
No more longing for him or wishing he'd do right by me.
I'm tired of having to beg for the affection that I deserve.
When I eventually get out of bed later that evening, I do so with a new determination.
I'm writing Ian out of my story, but I need to find someone to build a new character from.
So I shower, get dressed like a woman on a mission, and head out to the very bar I met Ian at days ago.
Thirty minutes into the night, and I'm already tired.
All the men I've met so far either want to talk about themselves or me. None of them fit into the manly and attention-grabbing arc I'm looking at.
Ian is a confident man. His presence alone exudes class and demands respect. And there's the fact he carries himself like he owns the whole world when in fact he may as well be broke.
I still don't know what he was doing in Glazer Ville, but something tells me he wasn't exactly honest with me and may be in need of that job he said he was here for after all.
I'm deep in thoughts after brushing off the third man to approach me for the night when another man comes to stand in front of me. He seems to be around my age, and there's this air of superiority around him that draws me to him.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he asks.
I glance at my now almost-empty cocktail and smile.
“Sure.”
He motions at the waitress and places another order of my drink while he asks for a glass of whiskey.
I smile as he sits, my head already thinking of the right words to strike the conversation off with.
My drink comes, and I take a sip.
“Peter.” He offers me his hand, and I take it quickly, grateful for the rescue.
I can't seem to think of the right thing to say, and I blame it on Ian and my father.
“Sarah,” I say. He takes my hand and shakes it.
“I know.”
He's a fan. I immediately start to withdraw at the realization.
“Looks like you visit here often for inspiration.”
An observant fan. Just great. Let's hope I don't end up on the news tomorrow about how I hound men for inspiration in my books.
“Oh yeah? What gave me away? The fact that I'm relaxed, or the ‘I'm a writer on a mission look?’”
“Both, I guess.”
I nod.
“Thank you,” he says, suddenly serious.
It's not unusual for fans to thank me for my work and say that it impacts them so much.
“You're welcome.”
“No seriously, thank you. We were so worried you would say no.”
Okay, is it just me or is this guy talking more than a fan would?
“I'm sorry?” I ask, my guard now up.
I push away the drink he bought. I don't want to be drinking anything he's going to be paying for if he's a creeper or whatever he is.
“I should probably introduce myself properly,” he says with a sigh, a somber look coming over his face.
Yeah, he should. And then get the fuck away from me when he's done because whoever he is, I have no interest in prolonging this conversation.
“Hi, I'm Peter Brown, your stepbrother.”
I'm going to need a stronger drink.