Page 64 of A Smart Girl's Guide to Second Chances
‘Do you want me to come home?’ he asked once I’d filled him in on the slightly dramatic end to the party. ‘I could see if an Uber could drive me back?’
‘No, no, I’m fine. I mean... I’m acting kind of like an emotionally incontinent person. But hearing your voice is helping,’ I said. His offer to be by my side if I needed him was like a windbreaker, protecting me from the squall of familial drama. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to check in. Let you know that I’m in the hospital,’ I said.
There was a pause.
‘Okay. I’ll keep my phone with me. Can you message me updates?’ he asked. I could imagine his eyes crinkling with concern, that he’d be running a worried hand through his silky hair.
‘Yeah, of course,’ I said. I heard some cheers in the background – Matt’s night was clearly heading towards a crescendo.
‘You go,’ I said. ‘Have fun!’
‘Give my love to Helena,’ he said. ‘And sorry about your hen’s.’
‘I feel bad for Lily and Stella, they put so much work into today,’ I said. Nick’s comment about Stella might have been hypocritical, but it still stung.
‘Aaron just showed me a photo of the two of them at the hotel with a tray of food in the king bed you were all meant to end up in. They’re having a great night,’ he said.
‘That’s good,’ I said, relieved. Stella and Lily both had grandparents helping them with their kids this weekend, and I was glad that the hen’s day had, at the very least, been a chance for them to have a break from the churn of their lives. ‘Now go – enjoy your night!’
I ended the call then checked the time – it was almost nine. If I hustled to the hotel, they’d rally. But it was also past both of their usual bedtimes and they more than deserved a night of uninterrupted sleep.
I decided I’d say goodnight to Dad then go home. I wandered the hospital corridors towards his office, muscle memory taking over.
I hadn’t been there since I was a kid. I used to love it when Dad brought me to work with him. The magic of the doctors and nurses helping to heal every person who walked through the hospital’s doors – with stitches, medicine and plaster – had seemed more potent than the stuff in the Harry Potter books I’d abandon on Dad’s office couch so I could sneak through all the wards. The maladies solved with X-rays and MRIs seemed far more interesting than any of the mysteries I watched with Grandma Evelyn.
When I was little, I felt like all you could want from life was at hospitals. They were a complete world – birth, death, drama, food. I could understand when I was there why some doctors barely left, why Dad barely left.
The door to Dad’s office was ajar and the light was on, but he wasn’t there. I stepped inside. Very little had changed since I’d last been there. Behind his desk was a series of medical textbooks, and on the wall an array of framed degrees hung, his name inked in twirly lettering. Every other space was filled with thank-you presents from people grateful that he’d helped their brothers, sisters, dads and mums. I wondered, in some parallel world, if Dad had seen Alex’s mum before it was too late, what Alex would have sent? And what Alex would have got back, how his life might have unfurled.
On one corner of Dad’s desk were two framed photos. These had changed – when I was young, it had just been a single group shot of Mum, Nick and me. Now Mum was gone, and Nick and I each had our own frame.
Nick’s photo was his graduation portrait. Mine was one of me at Oxford, grinning in front of the Radcliffe Camera. Alex had been standing near me, but he was out of the shot. There we were – Dad’s two overachieving kids. Did he look at these on a busy day and silently congratulate himself for doing such a good job?
Before I could stop myself, I picked up my frame and threw it at the wall. It landed with a crack and then fell to the carpeted floor with a dull thud. I stared at it, shocked at myself. Had I developed an overnight anger-management problem? What had happened to my usually overflowing cup of impulse-control?
‘Is everything all right?’ An Irish nurse, who though young had already mastered the art of authoritative brisk movements, burst into the room. Her face darkened when she realised that it wasn’t Dad throwing things around, but rather a woman dressed like an eighties aerobics instructor. ‘You can’t be in here.’
She had the expression of someone about to call a Code Black, the code for a safety risk. Was it normal that I’d knownall the code colours, almost as early as I’d known the colours themselves?
‘I’m John’s daughter,’ I said quickly. ‘He knows I’m here... My mum got admitted tonight and I’m a bit upset.’ She gave me a half-smile but I knew she wasn’t empathetic – I’d distracted her, no doubt, from an understaffed night shift.
‘I can’t leave you here on your own,’ she said.
‘I’m leaving now,’ I said. I picked up the frame from the floor. There was a crack down the middle of the glass. I carefully placed it back where I’d found it on the desk.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. After hours of tossing and turning and then a few more trying to dissociate on many social media apps, I drove to the market and chose two thank-you bouquets: a riot of colour for Lily and an enormous bunch of peonies for Stella. And then at the last minute I added a bunch of tulips for Mum. I dropped Stella’s bunch on her doorstep – her mum’s car was still in the driveway and I didn’t want to interrupt their family time. Then I crossed the city to Lily’s store. Since having Arlo, she worked on Sundays.
Lily Li Jewellery in Brunswick was like Aladdin’s cave. It wasn’t totally surprising that it was empty – it was only just after 10 am, which north of the river on a Sunday was the equivalent of dawn.
‘Lil?’ I called. I heard a sniff and decided to go through to the back, hoping I wasn’t about to terrify one of her casual staff. Maybe she and Stella had decided to have a lazy morning in the hotel room.
Then I spotted her. She tried to plaster on a smile when she saw me in the doorway, but it was too late and too obvious that she’d been in the middle of a proper cry.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I mean . . . not really.’
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. Was Arlo okay? Was something going on with Aaron?
