“No,” I say. “I’m at school. I have my car.”
Kristy might have wanted to say more, but before she can, I say, “Bye,” and hang up the phone.
“What happened?” George asks.
“My dad...he’s...Princeton-Highbury General...” I’m trying to find the words to repeat to George what Kristy told me, but I don’t know them anymore or I can’t remember them, and I really can’t remember how to speak much at all. All I can think is, Please, please, please let Dad be okay.
George holds out his hand. “Give me your keys.”
“What?”
“Your keys, Emma. We need to get to the hospital and you can’t drive like this.”
I do what George is asking, hand him my keys. My hands are shaking, and George takes my arm, lifts me gently off the curb and holds on to me. He steadies me the whole way through the parking lot to my car and helps me get in.
It is weird to be in the passenger seat, to see George in the driver seat of my car, and this is something I might comment on if I weren’t also hyperventilating. George adjusts the seat and the mirror and pulls out. “Just breathe, Emma,” he says. “I’m sure everything is going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, my voice breaking.
He stops at a red light, turns and puts his hand on my arm. “You’re right, I don’t know that,” he says. “But try not to panic yet, okay?”
The light turns green, and George speeds down Highbury Pike, faster than I normally would drive. I put my head against the seat, close my eyes and pray that George is right.
* * *
George drops me off at the front of the ER, and I run in as he goes to park. It’s packed inside, but I make my way up to the front desk, and have to wait in line. Finally, I’m at the front, and I ask for Dad.
George runs in, and I wave him over to where I’m standing.
“Woodhouse?” the nurse says, scanning a list in front of her. “I don’t see him.”
“What do you mean you don’t see him?” I’m talking too loud, almost yelling. “Kristy said he was taken here.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, holding up her hands. And I know I have to explain more, or ask more questions, but I can’t find the words, and when I try, I start crying instead. If they can’t find him, does that mean he’s dead? I can barely breathe I’m crying so hard.
George steps forward and explains what he thinks happened, and where Dad would’ve been coming from. “Check again,” George says to her. “Please.”
“Woodhouse?” Another nurse steps forward, and hands the first nurse a chart. “He was just admitted. Third floor. Room 301.” She points toward the elevator, and I run in that direction, hearing George thank them behind me.
It takes forever for the elevator to come and then to rise up to the third floor, and it’s hard to focus on anything because my eyes are still teary, and I didn’t think to ask why Dad was admitted or what condition he’s in. I picture him in a coma, tubes and wires coming from his large body. My breath is ragged in my chest and I can barely stand. George grabs on to my hand and it feels more like it’s to hold me up, to keep me from falling, than to try and comfort me. I don’t let go of him. I can’t.
Finally, the elevator makes it to the third floor; room 301 is just across from it, and George and I run toward it. I stop at the doorway when I see Dad. He’s sitting up in bed, reading something on his iPad. No tubes and wires at all, except for an IV.
“Dad. You’re alive!” I run into his room and give him a huge hug.
“Emma, honey, of course I’m alive. I was just trying to figure out how to connect this thing up to the Wi-Fi to text you. My phone is back at the office but I had my iPad with me in my briefcase. How did you know I was here?”
I hold on to him so tightly, and he’s warm and smells the way he always does, like his Old Spice aftershave, and I’m so relieved I can’t let him go for a few minutes. “Kristy called me,” I say. “But all she said was that you collapsed and then the nurse couldn’t find you and I thought you were dead.”
“Oh, Em.” Dad holds on to me tightly and kisses the top of my head. Dad suddenly notices George standing nearby, too, and he waves to him. Then he tells us both we should sit down on the small daybed next to his hospital bed. I reluctantly let him go and sit with George.
“What happened?” I ask him. “George and I were just leaving school when Kristy called. He drove me here.”
“Thanks, George,” Dad says, and shoots George a smile. Then Dad turns back to look at me. “Now, it’s not a big deal and I don’t want you to freak out, Emma. But there’s just a minor problem with the old ticker.” He thumps his palm lightly against his chest, then grimaces a little.
A problem...with his heart? And he passed out?
“Did you have a heart attack?” I shriek at him. He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he’s considering how to sugarcoat things for me. “Dad! Tell me what’s going on,” I yell at him.
“A very, very small heart attack,” he finally admits. “There’s a little blockage, and the doctor’s going to do a minor procedure, put in a stent tomorrow morning. Then they say I can go home tomorrow afternoon, good as new.”
“Dad! You could’ve died.”
“But I didn’t,” he says. “I’m right here, Em.”
“You have to take better care of yourself.”
He chuckles a little. “I told the doctor you were going to say that.”
“This isn’t funny!” I yell at him again, but I’m so relieved that he’s here, that he’s breathing and talking to me. I try and focus on the words he just said. Small. Minor.
He holds out his arms again, and I stand up and give him another hug. He strokes my hair back with his hands. “I know,” he says. “But I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere. I promise you, Em.”
* * *
I want to spend the night at the hospital with Dad, but he insists that I go home, sleep in my own bed and get my homework done, though I don’t know how I’ll be able to concentrate on anything. I refuse to leave until I hear what Dad already told me directly from the doctor—that he will be fine, and that the procedure he’ll have in the morning is fairly routine and minor.
My hands are still shaking nearly two hours later as we ride the elevator back down, and George insists he’ll drive me home. I tell him I’ll be okay if he goes to his house first. I am capable of driving the whole mile back to my own house, but he says he’s coming over and he’ll text his mom to pick him up on the way home from work. I don’t argue with him, because the truth is, I feel grateful for his company. I don’t think I want to be alone.