He hesitates at first and for a moment I wonder if I’ve overstepped some boundary I never knew was there, like when I sent Isaiah the giant care package.
“You’re incredible,” he says. “That would be amazing. Thank you. She’s at Good Samaritan on Wilshire.”
“Perfect. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Chapter Forty-One
Isaiah
Calista checks her phone before shoving it in her pocket. “Ian’s on his way.”
Reaching for Mom’s hand, I shrug. “So? I’m not leaving.”
She lifts her hands. “Wasn’t saying you should. Just thought you’d want to know. He’s in the building. Just texted me for Mom’s room number, so he’ll be here any second.”
Mom is sound asleep in her hospital bed at Good Samaritan, monitors beeping as the scent of bleached bedding and antibacterial soap fills the air around us. In the corner, my other sisters, Layla and Raya, talk amongst themselves. My older brother, Marco, is down the hall chatting up one of the nurses, though he claimed he was just going to get an update.
Guess the gang’s all here.
“When are you two going to bury the hatchet?” Calista asks. “Hasn’t it been long enough?”
I shoot her a look.
Forever would never be long enough.
“Hey,” Calista says a minute later, peering across the room where the man of the fucking hour stands in the doorway, looking like he’s about to shed a tear or something.
I don’t buy it.
If he truly cared about our mother, he would’ve taken care of her when I was gone instead of running around knocking up other people’s girlfriends.
“Hey, Cal.” Ian strides across the room, ignoring me as he heads toward Calista and gives her a side hug. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s stable,” Calista says. “Just resting right now. They’re waiting on some labs. Thinking maybe her meds interacted or something, but we won’t know for sure until we get the results.”
Ian greets the other girls next, heading across the room and leaning against the wall, arms crossed and making small talk.
It’s funny how years ago we were all on the same page about Ian and his penchant for lying and cheating and scamming and generally only looking out for his own interests, but I go away for years on end and suddenly it’s like he’s taken my place and everyone loves him again. And it’s not that I’m jealous—this isn’t a fucking competition—I just hate that some of us seem to have forgotten what a vile human being he is.
Ian won’t stop checking his phone and after a minute, I watch as he types out a quick message and shoves it back into his pocket before returning to his conversation.
“She’s going to be okay, Isaiah,” Calista says, voice low.
“I know.”
“You’ve been here since 6 AM,” she says, “and you haven’t left her side once. Go. Get something to eat. Grab a coffee. Stretch your legs. Just do … something.”
“I’m good.”
Calista marches around Mom’s hospital bed, arms folded. “I’m serious. Go for a walk. It’s better than sitting here stewing, which is exactly what you’re doing.”
“I’m not stewing.” My nose wrinkles.
She rolls her eyes before grabbing the sleeve of my t-shirt and yanking me into a standing position.
Exhaling, I straighten my shirt, smooth out the wrinkles, and squeeze between my obnoxious older sister and the wall beside Ma’s bed. Ian, Raya, and Layla watch as I leave, and I walk with purpose, like I have somewhere to go, when I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.
I’m not hungry.
I don’t want a coffee.
I don’t want to go walking around a germ-y hospital.
It’s cold as hell outside.
Passing the nurses’ station, I spot my older brother flirting with a copper-haired, freckle-faced girl-next-door type in lavender scrubs, and he’s so far gone he doesn’t notice me.
Rounding the next corner, I stop mid-trek when I nearly bump into a familiar face.
“Oh. Hi.” Maritza brushes a strand of dark hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her left ear. “I’m just … I came here to support Ian.”
“Obviously.”
Her expression softens and she’s a little less bent out of shape than she was yesterday morning at the café, and I take this opportunity to share a few things on the off-chance she might be more receptive this time around.
“You know, I came home a few weeks ago,” I said. “Tried to call you, but your number was disconnected. Tried stopping by the café, but you were never there. I couldn’t remember your address because I’d kept it in this book in my tent and we lost it in one of the airstrikes, and to be honest, ever since the coma, parts of my memory are a little foggy sometimes. Couldn’t even remember how to get to your place when I came back.”
Her dark eyes point toward the ground and she pulls in a breath of purified hospital air.
“But the one thing I didn’t forget was you, Maritza,” I say. “I never stopped thinking about you for two seconds. I don’t know what he told you, but I can—”