Leon's Way Page 26

“Yeah, okay.”

  I hand her my phone while I drop down on the couch. The baby’s pressing outward, upset by what’s going on with me. I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.

  Kat’s cell goes straight to voicemail. “Do you have the mother’s number?” Ingela asks, shaking the device as if that’ll help.

  “No…” I’m breathing hard, working to pass enough oxygen to my tiny one. What the hell do I know? I wish I’d attended a childbirth class.

  “Your mom’s number’s on here, though. I’m calling.”

  “No, she’ll freak out. Wait…” Something pricks before my eyes. It’s dark and colors Ingela’s form with reds and greens and blues.

  “That’s it!” she mutters, runs soft fingertips across my cheek, and leaps to the door. What she shouts down the stairs does nothing to calm my panic.

  “Arria’s having the baby!”

  What. The Fuck. Is Mom doing in Deepsilver? I pack up the hotel, check out, and call Choice’s manager while I rush onto the freeway. “Ralph. Something has come up. Get cracking on the changes with Kayla in charge of the bartender staff, and I’ll email you the updated prognosis for the next quarter.”

  “Will do,” he says.

  Next, I buzz Kat from the car. She needs to get my mother the fuck away from her abuser. I wish I’d come here on the Ducati. I’m two and a half hours from Deepsilver with no stops, a time I’ll still beat by miles.

  My sister is not picking up. Not only that, but it’s going straight to voicemail. I call my mom, and the same thing happens there.

  I puff out air, glimpsing my wild eyes in the side mirror. The hospital has reception, right? They do. I fucking know they do!

  A heap of missed calls from Arriane. Several text messages. Katsu’s texts from the nights Arriane was here. I didn’t bother checking them, because the news she’d provide wasn’t the kind I’d appreciate while I enjoyed my unbidden visitor. Now, I finally read them.

  He’s dying, Leon. I bet he’ll end up at hospice soon.

  The next text trickled in the same night. You should come back. Last chance to get some closure. They’re starting morphine drip.

  I know what that means. The pain is excruciating, the doctors have no hope of recovery, and soon all he’ll do is sleep.

  My sister gave up after the third text early Saturday morning: If you have anything left to say to the sperm donor, it’s now or never, brother.

  I don’t. That’s not why I’m craving the Bag Room. Not why I’m speeding to get to the hospital. Deep down, I’m aware that he can’t hurt her now, and yet the urge to haul my tiny, defenseless mother out of there before he even looks at her is overwhelming.

  I don’t stop to consider. I let the overheated oil of my fury boil as I barge in the front doors to the hospital.

  I get redirected by some white-coat. My father has already been moved to hospice. “Yes, sir—it’s in a building on its own. Turn and you’ll look right at it in the far corner below the big oak trees,” he directs me.

  I forget to reply. Jog the minutes it takes to get from the main building to the hospice house. I try to calm myself down but end up slamming the two doors open and entering like a storm.

  “Can I help you?” asks an undaunted, elder nurse with glasses.

  “Yes. I’m here for Marshall George Stonewell.”

  “Family?” she prods kindly.

  “Yes: son.” And as always, I’m appalled at the thought.

  While she leads me down the corridor, my rage grinds on the concept of being a son. Then, a father. I’ll never make my father’s mistakes, I’ve been bragging. Yeah, right. Who the fuck do I think I am? Super-fucking Clark Kent?

  I slam a fist into the wall, the sound nightmare-loud in this sacred place where people die.

  “Sir,” the nurse hums out. “I understand that you’re grieving. Please, just remember there are other patients here too.”

  “I’m not grieving,” I growl, and she nods to that as well. She’s noncommittal with shuffling sandals slowing at a green door, identical to every other door in the place. She raps short knocks against wood.

  I don’t feel like waiting, because I know what lies beyond.

  “Thanks, I’ll take it from here,” I say and summon all my strength not to fling the door straight into the wall on the other side.

  My mother’s satiny-black head is bowed over my father’s hand. She looks like she’s been in this position for a while. Kat bounces up from her chair, alarm striking her features. “Shishi? How did you know?”

  And that’s it. I grab my little sister’s arms, clenching so hard she whimpers. Mom gets up too and scurries to us. They’re two tiny, weak, strong, fearless women side by side, facing me, their self-appointed protector. They’re ready to defend themselves against me—me—and it hurts like a motherfucker!

  I drop my hold on Kat.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” My voice is a whisper and a roar at once, the pitch hitting the ceiling in ways it hasn’t since I was ten years old.

  “Oh, baby boy,” she says, hands lifting to my cheeks. I jerk away, glaring at her.

  “This is not happening.” I flash a single glance at the monster, whose eyelids flutter at the unrest around him. He can rest once he’s dead—if they let people rest down there. “You! Are coming with me.”

  “No, Leon. I’m waiting for him to wake up. He needs to apologize to me,” my little mother says, determination painting not just the statement but her whole stature.

  “Of course, but it’s a tad late now, Mom.” I laugh.

  “Leon, listen.” Mom’s voice grows infinitesimally, demanding attention. “That’s not what I’m saying. For himself, he needs to apologize, and it might not be too late.”

  This family I was born into? They’re so messed up. We’re messed up—every one of us in different ways. “You’re a goddamn martyr, Mom!” I shout.

  The door opens, and a male nurse the size of my bouncers clasps his biceps in the doorway. “Sir. You need to calm down, or you’ll have to come with me.”

  Mom straightens, and before I can react, she walks past me and addresses the man. “I’m sorry, sir—it won’t happen again. This is hard for my son. Please give us another chance.”

  She’s so good at this. At taking the responsibility for other people’s actions. She used to do it for Dad. Making sure the neighbors didn’t “misunderstand” shouting matches and bruises.

  “Please…” It’s not Mom now.

  It’s Dad.

  We all turn and stare into eyes so yellow that algae-infested blue appears green.

  “One last chance.” The nurse bobs his head once, rumbling the words out as he leaves us alone.

  “He hasn’t been awake in days,” Kat whispers.

  Dad is struggling. Roaming for words, maybe the strength to speak them, and his gaze widens as he focuses on his ex-wife between his two children. We’re a distorted Pleasantville family.

  Kat runs over and tries to accommodate him higher on the pillows. He must be feather light by now, but she still can’t do it. My sister is frustrated, fingers fumbling against bony shoulders and too-wide hospital gowns.

  “Shishi, help her?” Mom pleads, and so I do—because it’s what they want. I am their protector, not their antagonist. I need them happy.

  “Let’s leave,” I go through the motions of articulating, and both of them ignore me. The sperm donor hears me, though, and urgency crosses his features.

  “Sshh,” Mom coos to the monster. “We’re not leaving. Relax, Marshall. Take your time.”

  I huff out a breath. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I can’t pick up. Judging by the missed calls earlier, it’s Arria, and I’d be an idiot if I answer only to scare her off with my anger. There’s one, maybe two weeks left until the baby comes; I have everything to lose, and my dad is not going to be my downfall.

  “Switch your phone off, Shishi,” Kat says. “They don’t allow it in here.”

  It’s my turn to ignore he
r. I lace my fingers at my neck and swing to the window, where grass and trees offer distraction from the putrid man on the bed. I might not answer Arria’s calls, but I can’t cut her off. What if something happened?

  “My… wife,” Dad stammers out. “I… love… you. So… much.”

  I rotate, muscles coiled and ready to attack. I’ll beat the son of a bitch into a bloody heap. He wrecked us—he’s his own fucking home-wrecker. I want to laugh at my new use of the word, but destroying him is more important.

  Kat reacts before I do. How was I so slow? She’s in front of me, in my space, pressing me backwards with her tiny body. “Don’t!” she wheezes. “You have no right!”

  “He has no right,” I wheeze-yell back at her, staying below the limit so bouncer-nurse doesn’t barge in again. I’d have to fight him first, before I could demolish my father.

  “Hush, darling,” Mom hums to the monster, and her fucking hands pat—pat—his arm up and down like he deserves comfort!

  “Damn you, evil—” I start but Kat’s palm muffles me. I let her because… it’s Kat.

  “What’s Mom doing?” I mumble against her fingers. I don’t understand, and I’m reduced to asking. Hoping I’ll get a reply that’s not surreal.

  “He’s spun out from the drugs, Shishi—she’s humoring him, don’t you see? No reason to hammer in the truth when it won’t matter anyway.”

  “I love you, Ayako.” My father’s broken record is weak and sickening. “My wife. Always on my mind.”

  I open my eyes, only now realizing I closed them against him. I spear him with my glare, scrutinizing him. He’s ancient for his years. There’s regret behind the mustardy film of his stare.

  And I notice. “No, Kat. He’s not beyond reason. Look.”

  Kat follows my attention. Our father proves me right by starting in on a barely audible fucking speech. “My only love. I wronged you day after day, night after night. Please forgive me, Ayako. I was such a fool. I had everything back then, with my family. Squandered all for worries over money. I…” He’s out of breath. I groan; this is too hard to listen to.

  My phone buzzes again. Fuck. Does she have to keep calling? I grab my electronic tormentor and leave it face down on the table.

  “Money means nothing. People do. From the bottom of my heart…” He’s gasping for air, desperate to finish his sentence.

  “Sshh,” our saint of a mother murmurs. “Darling, it’s okay. I forgive you. I forgave you years ago. You can rest now.” Not only does she say all that, giving him total absolution, but she smiles too. Ayako’s smile contains no rancor. How can she do this?

  “Your… life?” Dad manages, wanting to hear about it.

  Mom understands. “My life is good, Marshall. My husband, John, loves me very much. As much as I love him. We have a small house in the perfect neighborhood for us. I do some freelance writing for a newspaper. I have my charities, my yoga, and my religion.”

  My father’s smile is frayed at the edges, but relief seeps into each wrinkle at her words. “Good life…” he repeats, content with her answer. For a moment, he shuts his eyes. Then, he opens them. They flow through me to Katsu.

  “Princess…”

  My fury snarls and rattles the bars. How dare he call her princess? Is he going to talk about that time? Sappy-apologize, snivel about how he never meant to almost rape his own daughter?

  “Stay!” my sister hisses to me, irises ablaze with determination. “I don’t care, brother. I’ve tried like crazy to make you come to terms with stuff. If you can’t get over what he did to you, fine. But you’re not allowed to hold onto what he did to me. It’s like you savor it, suck on it like a flipping lollipop. Dammit, Shishi, it’s not your lollipop! This is our last chance, and I’m all in: I. Want. To. Be. Free.”

  Frozen, I stare at her. Watch her stride over to the monster’s bed.

  My phone buzzes. I want to chuck it at the wall.

  My sister reaches my father’s bedside. Tears brim in his eyes, stained beige by his dying liver. And I watch as my mother steps back to allow her closer.

  “Sweet princess. Your… life…?”

  He wants reassurance that he hasn’t fucked her up. My heart beats out an unnatural rhythm. It’s blending anger with something else. Something softer. Goddamn—sympathy.

  “Is amazing,” my sister replies with conviction, and our dad’s grin stretches wide, belying the dim flicker of energy his body produces. “In SF, Mom and John put me in a great school right away. My best friends from that school are still my besties, and I have my dream job and an awesome boss—who’s letting me be with you.”

  She must already have told him this during her hours at the hospital. “Ah…” my father breathes like it’s news to him. “Can you… Will you…”

  “Dad, yes. I mean what I say. It’s over. I refuse to live in the past with so much good stuff in my life. I forgive you for everything you did. Even for what you… tried to do.” Katsu chokes the last part out as my phone vibrates on the table again.

  “Honey?” Mom’s eyes flash between the cell and me.

  I hit “Reject Call” without looking. Then, I cross my arms because I know what’s coming next. The sperm donor’s focus flows to me. The light my mother and my sister ignited in him fades as he meets my glare. A sooty glob swells in me, chafing against my ribs. Sinks like lead and makes me feel like shit. It’s his fault.

  They’re all pressuring me with their kindness, their it’s-okays, because really, none of what happened is okay, and I’m the only one left getting it. This is a nightmare.

  “Leon, don’t worry. I don’t deserve your absolution.” My father enunciates so clearly it’s as if he’s not at death’s entrance. Serious, he means what he says, and yet his grief is as deadly as his disease. “Not any more than I deserved it from your mother and sister. I am blessed already. I expect your—”

  “Damn fucking straight, you piece of shit. You sad excuse for a human being. You should have been jailed for what you did to all of us—”

  My phone. My phone. My goddamn phone!

  “Hello!” I shout into the microphone before I can compose myself.

  “It’s me, Ingela.”

  “I’ve got caller ID, all right? Get to the damn point. I’m busy! What. Is. It.”

  “Sure, Leon. Your baby’s being born.”

  It’s not supposed to happen this way!

  Flanked by Ingela and a rush of white-coated staff, I’m wheeled into the delivery room. They bark quiet instructions to each other, grip my legs and arms, and hoist me from the wheelchair to the bed.

  Metallic clangs resonate from the bedsides as the nurses lower them. Then, someone heaves the backrest up, giving me a better view. I’m hurting. I’m hyperventilating. There’s fire extending throughout my hips. They must be melting—rupturing!

  “Breathe,” a stout nurse with grey hair orders.

  “I am breathing,” I puff, but I’m so scared I don’t know how to do it right. “Give me an epidural,” I plead. Dr. Rosenthal is already here. He’s calm with a hint of urgency coloring his irises.

  Now he catches my gaze. “You’re too dilated for an epidural. You’re at nine and a half centimeters, and your water just broke.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “The amniotic fluid is discolored, Miss Sarin. Which means the baby isn’t receiving enough oxygen. We need to get him out. Now.”

  “My boyfriend!” I cry. “He’s not here. I can’t! I can’t do this. Please slow it down!”

  “Miss.” My doctor’s voice is stern. “You aren’t doing well either. I can’t have you go into an eclamptic fit, which you very well might do if we don’t deliver your baby. Now. Let’s focus. I need your cooperation.”

  The cool hand of another nurse, this one a twenty-something blonde, strokes my hair away from my forehead. It’s sticky, sweating through the pain. “It’s okay. Breathe with me. Pull air deep into your lungs, like this.”

  “You’re just going to let me
suffer?” I shriek. In my panic, my vision blurs.

  The intense pressure around my hips eases some, but there’ll be more. These are the dreaded contractions. My time has come. Why aren’t they giving me a caesarian? They need to stop this—at least until Leon comes!

  I rotate to Ingela, who’s squeezing my hand hard. Someone tells her to sit. Her eyes are so scared I’m not sure she hears them.

  “Please, get him,” I sob. “I need him here.”

  “I’m trying, but he’s not picking up,” Ingela says. “He’s a dick-shit.”

  Dipshit.

  “No, no. This is not happening. Don’t give up, Inga. Tell him this hurts and it’s his fault!” I instruct her. She nods like I’m making sense and redials, redials, redials.

  My clothes are gone, the grey-haired nurse pulls a gown over my body and leaves me bare below the waist. This room is chock-full of people I don’t know, half of them male and I? All I care about is getting rid of this agony!

  Another intense contraction rolls through me. Someone shouts that I need to breathe, but I can’t. They stick something inside me, consoling me and saying it’s to monitor the baby’s pulse.

  He’s not getting enough oxygen.

  “Can you turn him?” one of the male nurses asks the doctor.

  “I’m certainly trying,” Dr. Rosenthal responds dryly.

  “Why do you need to turn him?” Ingela’s stare bores into the doctor while she redials for the millionth time and waits for Leon to pick up.

  “Because the umbilical cord is wrapped around his neck.”

  “Oh my God,” my friend gasps. “Hello?” she says into the phone. “It’s Ingela.” She listens for a moment before she goes, “Sure, Leon. Your baby is being born.”

  The minutes race by too fast as I run out of hospice and across the parking lot to the main building. I have no fucking idea where the maternity ward is. The receptionist takes her time getting off the phone, and when she does, she’s slow at explaining in detail where I need to go. Out the same door I came in and fucking four buildings over, entrance on the opposite side, elevator to the fifth—fifth—floor.

  What the hell?

  She asks if I’ve got a car. Wants to explain how to pull into the special parking area behind the center designated for deliveries, and I shake my head impatiently.