Page 20 of The Heiress
My chest lifted, my lungs filling with oxygen but there was no escape for the air needing to be released. I turned my back on him, holding the sides of my head as I exhaled heavily. It was like the mere act of standing up had exhausted me.
“It’s a perfectly normal procedure in circumstances like this,” Dad continued in an annoyingly soothing voice, probably the one he used when telling a patient he was about to extract a tooth. “We need to make sure you’re covered. There may be further medical expenses in the future.”
“But I thought everything was covered,” I said, pivoting around. I mean, I wasn’t an expert on how insurance worked, but so far I’d had access to whatever medical care I needed, and I did know that rehab in Alban Grove didn’t come cheap.
Dad had risen, his knuckles tapping together in front of his chest. I was a couple of inches taller than him now, and I made sure to stretch my patched-up pelvis to its full extension. It hadn’t escaped my attention that I’d spun easily, rotated around like it was a natural movement. Maybe I could ditch the crutches completely.
“Yes,” Dad said, clearing his throat. “Yes, everything’s been covered.” He sucked his lips in and lowered his head. “But there’s other things to consider. Phoenix...there’s emotional distress...the pain and suffering you’ve had to endure.” The pauses were dramatic and it set my heart off in a wild pitter patter—and the words that caused goosebumps, “Your mother needs to be held accountable for that.”
The venom in his voice was palpable, his blazing eyes harboring a deep-seated animosity which shocked me:Your mother needs to be held accountable for that.
The beat of my heart stepped up to raging grade 3 hurricane, my lungs not functioning like they should, outraged that Dad would suggest punishing Mom further.
Oh yeah, the irony of it all: I had been doing that—punishing her by my actions, treating her like my personal chauffeur, demanding she drive me wherever and whenever. And guilt tripping her with my moods—either giving her the silent treatment or making sure she knew just how difficult things were for me, the pain I was in.
But for Dad to imply Mom needed to be answerable in a court of law, that was jolting.
“Mom’s been through a lot already,” I said, picturing her thin and gaunt and a shadow of her former self, disappearing before my very eyes, and no matter how much I wanted her to feel the guilt, I didn’t want to do this to her.
“Yes, I know,” Dad said, “butso have you.Phoe, it’s your future I’m thinking about. We have to think aboutyourneeds. We can claim for the pain and suffering and mental distress.” His tone changed as if he was the afflicted one. “I watched you in that hospital bed. I saw your struggle when you tried to stand for the first time. Son, you’ve been to hell and back and she needs to pay for that.”
“She already got charged,” I said.
Dad scoffed in disgust. “That was nothing more than a slap on the wrist.”
It was true that Mom’s attorneys had negotiated her charge down to a lesser traffic violation, but it seemed Dad wanted to see her suffer more, make her pay. Pleading guilty to using an electronic communication device while driving ensured her punishment was reduced to a fine and demerit points and not a misdemeanor which could have resulted in jail time.
“Phoenix, I don’t think you understand,” Dad said in a patronizing tone, like he knew I was clueless on how the legal process worked, “Your mother’s negligence caused the accident. The woman was talking on her phone, for goodness sake. We have a very strong case for settlement.”
“Yeah,” I said, fighting hard to keep calm, “but like you said, it was an accident, Dad,” I reiterated with sarcasm, “anaccident.”
“Phoe, what your mother did has completely changed your life. It’s time to look at the bigger picture. We don’t know what the future holds...this is about covering our bases. It’s not uncommon to file a personal injury suit after an accident. Like I said, it’s nothing against your mother.”
“But you just said she had to be accountable.”
Dad exhaled in exasperation, touching his forehead as if he was dealing with a toddler. “I’m doing this for you, Phoe. You had your heart set on a tennis career and now you have to rethink your whole future. This has changed everything for you.” He paused, and his next words were spoken without any empathy, but a full on assault of aggression. “What if tennis doesn’t work out for you, Phoenix? What then?”
The question jarred me, like being slammed against a pole or tree or whatever the car had crashed into. Tears of fury stung my eyes. His nerve, his audacity—that he would even suggest such a thing.
Would I ever be able to play tennis at that level again?
Suddenly the whole conversation had turned, and I was now questioning what lay ahead for me. Since I’d won my first tournament at the age of nine, playing tennis was all I wanted to do. The pathway had been forged, college tennis before eventually turning professional, yeah, there had only been one dream.
“Phoenix,” Dad said, back to his softI’m-about-to-pull-your-toothvoice, his hand reaching for my shoulder.
I shrugged it off forcefully, my only thought being that I had to get out of there. Get away from him. I would have liked to have dramatically stormed out, but that wasn’t possible. Spinning around, I picked up my crutches, tucking them under my arm like I was carrying a skateboard, making a point that I didn’t need them.
“I’m leaving,” I mumbled, opening the door and striding down the hallway to my bedroom. I hadn’t unpacked anything, so it was a matter of grabbing my bag and going. I slung it over my shoulder and gave in to using my crutches—but only because they might knock into the door frame. I could walk perfectly well without them. Knowing my car keys were in the kitchen, I’d have to see Courtney and the girls before I left.
Dad blocked the doorway. “Phoenix, stop,” he commanded. “Put your bag down.”
“I’m leaving,” I said, refusing to look him in the eye. “Excuse me. Please.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Go on, put your bag down.”
“I don’t wanna be here,” I said, horrified as a tear slid down my cheek. Where had that come from? With my hands gripping my crutches, it was impossible to wipe it away.
“Phoe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s just sit down and talk this through.” Dad stepped back, allowing me space to pass.
