Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Harlow
I’m tempted to chuck my phone out the window as I drive home.
I repeat his message in my head over and over, getting angrier each time.
Hey, I’m so sorry I didn’t text sooner. A work thing happened, and I wasn’t able to get away.
Normally, I wouldn’t get upset about someone having to cancel at the last minute because shit happens, but he didn’t text me until he was already twenty minutes late nor did he offer to reschedule.
When it comes to dating and guys, I seriously have no asshole radar because he fooled me big time.
Another part of me wonders if he’s lying and was here, saw me, and then left.
But his loss. I look damn good today and he missed out.
Yep, that’s what I’m telling myself.
Since Mom’s working at the hospital today, I’m home with Dad, but he went to take a nap shortly before I left. Even though I want to storm into the house, I don’t want to wake him.
Moose greets me at the door, acting like he has to go potty. “Hold on, sweetie.”
Figuring the other two dogs need to go outside, too, I go to my parents’ bedroom and quietly open the door. The backyard is fenced in, so they can roam freely.
“Sasha, Shelby…outside,” I whisper the magic word just loud enough for them to hear me.
They usually sleep on the bed with my parents, but they’re sitting in front of the master en suite, whimpering.
“Dad?” I step in and flick on the light, noticing he’s not in here.
I call out his name again, this time louder, and knock on the bathroom door. “Dad, are you okay?”
No answer.
Looking around, I notice his power chair is in the corner, but his walker is missing. He typically uses it to hop from the bed to the bathroom since the power chair is too big for the space.
I knock harder and then try the knob. It turns, but it won’t open. Something’s blocking it.
“Dad! Can you hear me?” I scream, trying to push through whatever is against it.
After a few more attempts, it opens just enough for me to peek inside and look at the floor.
My dad’s face-down and there’s blood around his head.
“Oh my God, Dad! Wake up!” I try shoving the door again, but the walker or his leg is blocking it, I can’t quite see, but I know I need to get in there. Who knows how long he’s been there and bleeding out.
I rush out of the house and run toward the bathroom window. The screen pops out, but it’s locked.
“Goddammit.”
Sprinting to the garage, I grab my metal bat and smash it through the glass. Then I reach through and unlock it, accidentally drawing blood across my palm when I slice it against an exposed piece.
Ignoring it, I push up the window and climb through—which is harder than I anticipated, but I manage to stabilize myself on the toilet seat and then step down so I can reach him.
“Dad, can you hear me?” Kneeling beside him, I press my fingers to his neck and blow out a relieved breath when I feel his pulse.
“Harlow?” he barely gets out.
“Oh, thank God.” I grab the hand towel and press it against the cut on the side of his face. “Don’t try to move. You must’ve fallen into the counter and smacked your head.”
“I tried to catch myself with my right foot,” he mutters, his eyes barely fluttering open. “Forgot it wasn’t there anymore.”
“I know, Dad. It’s okay. Gonna call for an ambulance.”
Even after all this time, he instinctively tries to use his foot, but then goes down because there’s no support to hold him up.
“No, no, I’m fine.”
I snort. “You need to get your head checked out. Also, I think the bottom of your stump is bleedin’.”
He groans. “It hurts like a son of a bitch.”
When they did the emergency amputation, they eventually had to do skin grafts, so there’s no fatty tissue to pad the bottom. It’s mostly bone with a thin layer of skin on top.
Once my call is connected, I explain the situation and that I’m too afraid to move his body, but it’s blocking the door for anyone to come in. The operator walks me through how to carefully shift him without further damaging anything or adding to his pain, but when I do, Dad groans.
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“I can crawl,” he says, lifting on his elbows just enough to get the door open.
“He’s conscious?” the operator asks.
“Yeah, but I’m worried he could have swellin’ in his brain or broken a rib from how he fell,” I explain. “I dunno how long he was out before I found him. He has a head wound, too.”
She continues asking questions while we wait for the EMTs to arrive and then I notice Dad’s breathing sounds off.
“You okay?” I ask, studying his face.
“I dunno,” he replies. “I think…it might be a panic attack.”
“Oh shit. What’s their ETA?” I ask the operator.
This isn’t my first rodeo with calling for help. Dad’s had a few big falls over the years, but this is the first time he’s ever smacked his head hard enough to lose consciousness.
“Three minutes. Keep him talkin’.”
“Dad, tell me about the day you met Mama.”
I’ve heard this story a dozen times, but it’s one he should without a doubt have memorized.
Although his speech is slow and he breaks to catch his breath, he tells me about how he spotted her at a party and the noise around him just stopped when their eyes locked.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met and was determined to talk to her before the end of the night.
But then he learned she had a boyfriend, the quarterback of all people, and he was a—
“Dad?” I shake his arm when he stops talking and his eyes close.
“I think he blacked out again,” I tell the operator.
“The ambulance should be there,” she tells me, and then a second later, I hear the dogs losing their shit.
“They are now,” I tell her.
“Okay. They’ll take good care of you.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and get to my feet so I can direct them where we are.
Multiple EMTs and firemen enter with their gear and a stretcher. The house suddenly feels too small with this many people, but I quickly show them where he’s lying.
“He was speakin’ a moment ago and then stopped,” I explain. “Did they tell you he’s an amputee? His stump got banged up too.”
“We’ll check him out. Don’t worry, miss.” A woman who doesn’t look much older than me says, patting my arm before walking past me.
A few of them squeeze through the bathroom door that’s still halfway blocked, and I quickly wrangle the dogs into their crates so they don’t get loose.
I still need to text my mom and Delilah, but I’m anxious for an update. I can’t see since they’re still in the bathroom, but after ten minutes, one of the bulkier firemen carries him out of the bathroom and gently places him onto the stretcher.
My dad’s not a massive guy, but he’s not small either. He’s six-foot and his upper body is muscular from years working on the farm with livestock. The lower half of him is weaker due to muscle atrophy, which is why it’s so easy for him to fall when he loses his balance.
“Is he gonna be okay?” I ask nervously.
“His blood pressure is low and the cut on his head needs sutures. I’m guessin’ a CT scan and fluids, too.”
“Can I ride with him?” I ask.
“Absolutely. You should get your hand looked at while we’re there, too,” she says, nodding down toward the blood flowing down my wrist and arm.
I forgot about it until she mentioned it.
“I’ll worry about it once I get an update on him,” I tell her.
While they get him situated in the ambulance, I quickly text Mom and Delilah, giving them as much information as I can. Mom’s already there, so she’ll meet us in the ER. Delilah’s trying to get someone to cover her shift so she can leave work early.
I hold Dad’s hand during the ride, the sirens blaring as we drive to the next town. He’s still unconscious, but they’re checking his vitals and giving him oxygen and fluids.
Twenty minutes later, everyone rushes out of the back, and they put him into a trauma room.
Nurses swarm his side, and I stay back frozen, feeling helpless.
“Harlow!”
My eyes snap to the side when I hear my mom’s voice rushing toward me.
“Are you okay?” She smothers me in her arms, holding my head to her chest.
“I’m worried about him.”
“I know, sweetie. They’re gonna take good care of him.”
They won’t allow her to treat him, so all we can do is wait for now.
“Lemme check out your hand,” she says, grabbing it.
“It’s fine. But we’re gonna need a new window.” I tense, hoping she’s not upset about that.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she says softly, leading me to a triage room. “Your fight-or-flight response is always one step ahead of your brain.”
She’s referring to the home invasion.
Had I not reacted the way I did—in fight mode—the guy would’ve never gotten the bat out of my hand and then used it against me.
But maybe he shouldn’t have tried to rob us in the first place.
“At least there’s a lot less blood this time,” I say to lighten the mood.
“Thank God,” she murmurs. “But you’re still at risk of infection if we don’t get the glass out and clean it.”
It’s not until after my hand is bandaged and we’re sitting outside Dad’s room, waiting for him to return from a CT scan, that the severity of the situation slams into my chest. Tears well in my eyes as the emotions overwhelm my senses and my heart races to catch up with my rapid breathing.
I count to twenty, waiting for the anxiety attack to pass, and squeeze Mom’s hand.
“I know the situation is different, but is this how it felt waitin’ to hear if I was alive or not?”
Mom wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer. “Think about the worst moment of your life and then times that by infinity when it’s your child.”
I choke up, wiping my face because I can’t even imagine how bad it must’ve been. “I hate that you guys went through that.”
“I’ve never prayed harder for God to spare your life because if he hadn’t, I threatened to go into that boy’s hospital room and make sure he didn’t live.
After your dad shot him, he needed surgery to stop the bleeding, but at that moment, I didn’t care.
If you didn’t make it, he didn’t deserve to either. ”