Chapter Eighteen Amanda #2
I slide him a look. “Don’t be so sure about that. He’s been on his phone constantly for the past hour. He’s barely looked up.”
Connor’s eyes are bloodshot, his expression fraught with apprehension. “But there’s no way he did that, right? You don’t believe it. Do you?”
“Of course not! He hasn’t been the best dad lately, but that doesn’t mean he tried to murder Mom. That’s insane!”
“But what happened?” Connor asks. “Why did she get swept off the rocks? She was always so careful. And why would he take her there after a storm, when the waves are so dangerous? He never takes time off work. Not even for my games!”
Connor is angry, and so am I. Mom is bruised and bloodied and in a coma. We almost lost her today. We might still lose her.
My emotions spiral, and I burst into tears. Connor wraps his arm around me, and I cling fast to him.
Back in Mom’s room, I’m conscious of the heart monitor beeping and the sound of the ventilator machine pushing air into Mom’s lungs.
I text Becky: Have you seen the news?
She replies instantly: Yes.
People are saying terrible things about Dad. #PeggysCoveMurder.
Becky responds: I saw that too, but don’t let it get to you. People have too much time on their hands. They’re just looking for entertainment. It’ll blow over.
I hope so.
I watch three dots floating, and then Becky texts again.
Chin up, okay? I’m here for you and Connor. We have to stay strong for your mom.
I’ll do my best.
I put my phone away and look up when the nurse walks in. She’s a slender woman in navy scrubs, about Mom’s age.
“Maybe you should all think about going home to get some sleep,” she suggests. “It’s important that you get your rest. We’ll take good care of her and call you if there’s any change.”
“But what if she wakes up?” I ask. “We want to be here for that.”
The nurse speaks to all of us reassuringly. “We’ll be watching her closely all night, and I promise, if there’s any change in her condition—any improvement at all—we’ll call you right away.”
Wondering what Dad thinks, I turn to him.
“She’s probably right,” he says. “We should get some rest because we’ll be no good to Mom over the next few days if we’re all exhausted.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Dad, are you serious? She almost drowned today.” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the nurse leave the room. “You don’t want to stay with her?”
He scratches the back of his head. “Of course I do, but we all need to sleep at some point. We can’t function otherwise, and if Mom wakes up, she’s going to need us to be strong.” He gestures toward the door. “And the nurse said she’d call if anything happens.”
I wonder if he cares at all, or if it’s all just fake, because he certainly didn’t care last week when Mom and I were at the police station, or when Connor was scoring goals in the tournament.
Dad reaches for his jacket draped over the back of the chair. “Let’s go home. We’ll come back first thing in the morning.”
While he moves to kiss Mom on the forehead, Connor and I exchange a look and gather our things.
A moment later, we’re following him out of the ICU. The door swings shut behind him, and he uses the wall dispenser to sanitize his hands. “You guys okay?”
“As good as can be expected,” I reply, feeling bitter inside.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Always,” Connor says.
Dad wraps his arm around Connor’s shoulders. “Me too. Let’s stop for some takeout on the way home.”
“Five Guys?” Connor asks.
It’s an understatement to say that Dad is not a fan of fast food, but tonight he passes no judgment. “Sure.”
We walk to the elevator, and he presses the down button.
While we wait, I try not to stare too closely at him, but it’s not easy.
I’m still so angry with him for taking Mom to Peggy’s Cove.
He may not have pushed her, like people are saying, but what happened to her is still his fault, and if she doesn’t make it, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive him.
Dad is behind the wheel, driving, while I sit in the front seat with him. Connor sits in the back, devouring his burger and fries. I still have no appetite, so I opted out of the takeout order, but surprisingly Dad got a burger and fries for himself. I suppose everyone has to eat.
“Did they miss you at the restaurant tonight?” I ask him.
He keeps his eyes on the road. “I’m sure they did.”
I stare at him intensely and can’t resist a spiteful dig. “Martina must have been in a state without you. How will she ever manage?”
He glances at me and frowns. “She’ll manage just fine. And everyone knows what’s going on. They understand why I can’t be there.”
Great comeback, I think to myself. A perfect deflection.
Exhausted, I rest my head against the window and stare at the houses as we pass. There are so many hateful things I could say about Martina right now—pretty Martina with the Italian accent, who sends him texts with little heart emojis. I wonder if Mom ever noticed that.
But then I find myself thinking about all the haters on social media who, at this very moment, are accusing Dad of cowardice and murder. He’s been slammed with enough vitriol tonight, so I decide to bite my tongue.
And I still don’t believe he would ever try to hurt Mom.
Or maybe I just don’t want to talk to him anymore or open up to him about my feelings. I certainly don’t want to talk about Martina. I just want to be quiet and stay mad.
As soon as we arrive home, Oscar greets us with enthusiasm at the door, his tail swinging, his nose nuzzling. He rises up on his hind legs and paws our thighs, desperately seeking affection. Connor and I kneel and make a huge fuss over him. We stroke his back and scratch behind his ears.
It’s exactly what we both need—this little bundle of merriment that lets us escape our hardships for a few brief seconds.
“Do you want to go outside to pee?” I ask, and Oscar bounds toward the back door. He skids to a halt on the family room carpet, spins in a circle, and prances around while I remove my backpack.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I say as I lead him across the room.
A short while later, I come back inside with Oscar. Dad sits at the kitchen island with his burger and fries, scrolling through his phone.
I don’t have the emotional energy to talk to him about the day or what horrors he might be reading online, so I simply say good night and retreat to my room.
Oscar follows. As soon as he trots into the room, I shut the door behind us. “What an awful day.”
He jumps onto my bed.
I watch him for a few seconds, then move to sit down on the edge of the mattress.
He lays his furry little chin on my thigh and blinks up at me with sweet brown puppy dog eyes that melt my heart.
But as I pat his soft head, I start to feel sick at the thought of Mom in the ICU, alone, with a plastic tube down her throat and a breathing machine keeping her alive.
What if she never comes back? No one loves me like she does. Who will I depend on?
Becky, I suppose. She’s like an aunt.
But it’s not the same.
I wonder suddenly if Mom named Becky as our guardian in her will. If she did, could Becky take care of us, even if Dad was still alive?
Does Mom even have a will?
I glance at the clock. It’s late. I shouldn’t text Becky now, but I decide to text her in the morning and ask if she and Mom ever discussed anything like that.
What a horrible conversation. Why am I even thinking about this? I need to stop imagining the worst.
At four in the morning, I wake, heart hammering in my chest because a ghost is moaning in the house. I sit straight up in bed.
Oscar is awake, on the carpet, sniffing under the door. He’s pacing, desperate to be released into the hall, which fills me with fear.
It takes a few seconds for me to gather my senses before I realize it’s not a ghost. Someone is crying. It’s Connor.
I toss the covers aside, leap out of bed, and pull my door open. Oscar dashes out, and I hurry to help my brother through this horrific experience. But when I reach his room and open the door, the lights are out. He’s sleeping soundly.
Confused, I back out of the room, careful not to wake him, and close the door softly behind me. Then I spot Oscar sitting outside my parents’ bedroom, sniffing again under the closed door.
Does he think Mom’s in there? Is he missing her?
Then I remember what woke me, the moaning ghost, and I realize it was my father, weeping.
The house is quiet now, so I’m not sure what to do. Should I leave him be? Allow him his privacy?
He’s a grown man, and we’re not exactly close. Would it be weird if I knocked and checked on him? I wonder if he even knows that I’m awake. At the very least, he must hear Oscar’s loud sniffing under his door.
Without warning, the door slowly creaks open. Oscar’s tail wags, and he looks up.
Dad whispers, “What are you doing here, buddy? You’re supposed to sleep in Amanda’s room.” Then he peers out and sees me standing in the hall. My cheeks flush with heat.
“You’re up,” Dad says.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really.” I’m shaken by what I thought was a spirit howling in the night. “How about you?”
“Not so good. I can’t sleep. Fancy some cinnamon toast?”
My heart squeezes at the mention of the snack I loved most when I was a preschooler. It’s something I grew out of a long time ago, but in this moment, it’s the ultimate comfort food, and suddenly I’m craving it.
“That would be perfect.”
Dad leads the way to the stairs, and Oscar pushes ahead of us to run down first.
“Did anyone give him his supper?” Dad asks, and I realize I forgot.
“I don’t think so. He must be starving.”
We reach the kitchen. “Do you know where Mom keeps his food?” Dad asks.
“Of course. Don’t you?” It’s another dig that I can’t bring myself to regret as I open the pantry door and reach for the bag of kibble.
“I suppose I deserve that,” Dad says. “I haven’t been around much lately.”