I feel my heart banging at the corners of my chest, counting from one to a hundred in every long stride I make. With the loud beating of my heart and the swirling of my vision, I feel like I am flying. The walls seem to squash me, its daintiness giving me unwanted worry. There's just something about hospitals that I hate. I can't explain what it is, but I never want to be here. Running through its wide and long corridors with several doors gives me this unnerving fear.
Though Mom didn't really sound that panicky, she might just be suppressing anxiety to avoid alarming me.
"Dad?"
I slam the door open, gasping for air. My eyes go straight to a man reclining his back on the bed.
"Angel," he calls me, flipping his hand and smiling at me as though he feels no pain. Mom was standing at the bedside still wearing that unfaltering look, her worry hidden by a reserved smile.
"Hi," a man, tall, lean, and blond calls my attention. "You must be Angel." He smiles at me.
He's the doctor. It's pretty much obvious as he's wearing a tie and a long white doctor's gown. In his hands is a computer tablet which probably contains Dad's medical records.
"I'm Eric Martin." He offers his hand for a handshake and gives me a gaze I find rather strange for a first meeting. He smiles and looks at me as though he is inside a bar hitting on girls. I suddenly remember Etheridge.
"Dr. Martin's son?" I casually take his hand. "Where's Dr. Martin?" I turn to Dad.
"He's on leave, so I took over. Do you mind?" He flashes a smile again, showing off a complete set of teeth.
"No. Absolutely no," I respond quickly after I find his gaze a little embarrassing.
"Thought you mind," he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with delight.
"So what happened to you, Dad?" I shake my head to shrug off the discomfort.
Dad doesn't look like he's in a critical condition. He's all smiling and beaming.
"His systolic blood pressure shot up to two hundred," Dr. Eric Martin answers while checking his tablet. "Hydralazine was given. Constant monitoring needed for now."
"I'm so relieved you're not in the ICU, darling," says Mom as she runs her fingers through Dad's short hair.
The thorns inside me slowly ebb away. I can breathe freely now. I feel my pulse slowing down.
Dad is safe.
"So does this mean Dad can go home if no complications arise?" I ask.
"Yes, of course. There's no reason for me to keep him here if he's well," Eric Martin say with a grin.
"Oh, God, thank you!" I hurry to Dad's side and embrace him.
"You shouldn't worry about me, sweetheart," he says. "I'm perfectly well! I'm fifty-four, but I can still do a marathon." I know he is kidding.
"I told you to curb on your coffee intake," Mom reprimands with a castigating look.
"From now on, no more coffee, Dad!"
"But—"
"Right, Mom?"
If only I can joke around like this all the time.
It isn't really a joke. Dad has to lower his coffee intake, but I have to make it sound witty and less grim so that Dad won't feel like I am blaming him for what happened. He's at risk of depression, and I don't want him to suffer mentally and emotionally while his physical body is slowly deteriorating. We have to pretend that everything is fine and that we, Mom and I, are taking things lightly. If Dad sees us sulking in one of the hospital's corners or shed a single drop of tear, he'll definitely be sad, and he's going to start blaming himself. It will not only tear him apart but our family as well. I don't want any of that to happen, so I better put my jolly front up.
"Ms. Mohr, can I talk to you for a second?" Eric Martin speaks up, politely interrupting our awesome family moment.
"Sure."
A sudden pinch of worry alarms me. I hope this isn't about Dad's condition, but I know it is since he's his doctor. Let it be good news this time, please.
"Go ahead, dear," Mom says with her eyes telling me to take Eric out of the room.
I lead him out, carefully closing the door behind us.
We are in the corridor, and I turn to face him.
"What is it you want to tell me, doctor?" I try not to sound uptight when my abdomen is squeezing because of anxiety.
Please, let it not be bad news.
"Ms. Mohr, your father has to stay here for a little while," he says after one deep sigh. His long face is an indication of more bad news. "We had to wait for the results of the tests we did a while ago. So far, his creatinine is up again. Blood chemistry not so good. We noted episodes of shortness of breath, too."
"Shortness of breath?" This is just like the last time we sent Dad to the hospital.
"While he was having dialysis in my clinic. We had to send him right away here. I thought we had to intubate him."
"Intubate? You mean put a tube through his trachea?"
He nods.
"Is that how serious Dad's condition is?" I feel huge rocks falling on my shoulders, and it was nearly unbearable.
"I'm afraid so. I have to tell you this first. I don't think Sarah can handle the stress well as much as you."
"What about Mom?"
"She's been asking me to prescribe her antidepressant pills for two weeks already. Sarah's having a hard time sleeping."
Mom has finally lost her grip. I never thought she'd be the first to get so affected. I thought it would be me. I thought I am more fragile than her. I thought she was as tough as steel. With the smile and calmness she always puts on, I never thought she is suffering that much.
"She's okay, isn't she?"
That is why she was always tired and sad these past few days. She is so tired with work in the hotel, yet when she returns home, she can't just go to bed and sleep because she still has to take care of Dad. The pang of guilt is squeezing my conscience.
"She needs an anchor to keep her stable, Ms. Mohr," Eric replies in his melancholic voice.
I have to be that anchor, I thought to myself. With Dad and Mom showing signs of defeat, I have no idea how to become that support they need. I, too, am human. Where will I get the strength to carry both my parents' burdens? When the time comes I feel tired and hopeless, who will be willing enough to be my anchor? I feel so weak.
With Dad's illness to Mom's anxiety issue, to my school fees to our unpaid mortgage, I don't know if I could still make it through tomorrow without losing my sanity.
"Are you okay, Ms. Mohr?" I sensed the worry from Dr. Martin's voice. He must have seen how I briefly lost my balance and how I lean back on the wall looking so pale and confused.
"I am," I reply as I straighten myself. "Thank you for telling me, Doctor."
"You're welcome. Are you sure you're okay?" He offers his arm for support, but I don't think I need it. I can manage.
I give him a faint smile.
"Please, tell me all the results first before going to Mom. I don't want her worrying too much," I say. "Any news about Dad might break her."
"And you? You think you can manage it?" His eyes speak more than just professional concern.
"Yeah, I better get inside now." I turn away from him and walk back to the door.
This Eric Martin seems really strange. He acts extraordinarily concerned about my family. Do doctors do that all the time to their patients or their patients' families? I hate speculations, and I loathe to assume that he's doing these kind things to gain points from me. He isn't attracted to me, is he? I bob my head to get rid of the stupid idea. Romance with a handsome and sexy-looking doctor in this time of tribulation is definitely not my priority.
"Mom," I call as return inside the room. Dad is asleep while Mom is at the bedside, her palms buried on her face. I almost choke when I see the heartbreaking scene. How I wish to see Mom putting up her strong front again. It's beyond selfish, but I don't think I can bear seeing her like this. If she breaks down, I might too.
"Yes, sweetie?" She wipes the tears from the corner of her eyes.
I gulp upon seeing her forcing herself to smile.
"Mom?" I said as I hug her. "Everything will be alright," I whisper while pulling her close to me. She starts crying again.
"I don't know what to do, Angel," she sobs.
I wish I can tell her that Dad will get better.
"Everything will be fine, Mom."
"Oh, Angel. I don't know what to do if you're not here."
"Trust me, Mom. We'll survive all these. I'll find a way to make things better for us." Though I don't really know how, I hope what I said lifts away a little of her burden.
"I'll look after Dad tonight," I say.
"No, I will. You go home and rest. You have school tomorrow." Which reminds me of my work at Maxwell's tonight and my de Vere assignment due a day from now.
"Okay, but update me about Dad." I brush away the tears on her face with my fingers.
--------------------------------------------------------------
I arrive ten minutes late at the diner, but Mr. Maxwell isn't mad at me despite the fact that he's very strict when it comes to tardiness. Ray must have told him about my latest misfortune.
"I'm really sorry for what happened, Angel," Ray speaks solemnly.
We are starting to clean the diner as the last customer, a lady in a skimpy outfit, is finishing her salmon sandwich and a glass of slush. Ray mops the checkered floor after dusting it off while I wipe the tables and chairs with disinfectant. Everyone else is busy in the kitchen helping Mr. Nguyen clean the pots and the oven.
"What did Maxwell say when you asked him about your advance paycheck?" Ray says.
"He said he can't give it to me before the end of the month. He's finding ways to solve his own financial troubles," I reply. I remember the staff talking about Mr. Maxwell planning to sell the diner because of a debt he procured years ago and must be paid now before the loan sharks get into his way. He isn't going to let that happen, is he? Imagine all of us being unemployed in a month. Not this time when I am in the most challenging moment of my life.
"Let's all pray our paychecks won't be our termination fees." I leer, hiding the anxiety in my joke.
"Angel," he said as he turns to face me. "I have shelved a few of my savings for emergency—"
"No, Ray. It's yours," I interjected. I know Ray. He's such a sweet and caring friend, and I know where this conversation is heading to. He'll say that it's his emergency fund, but I know it's not. I'll never let him sacrifice what he has for me. He's been saving this money for his future and for the most luxurious gift he can give himself.
"I can always save up for another four years," he says with a smile.
I approach him and look into eyes.
"Thank you, Ray, but no. Europe is long overdue." He could have gone there last summer if it weren't because of me. Yes, because of me. "The French and the Swiss have been waiting for you."
"Angel, you're my friend."
"And this friend," I said as I fix his skewed collar, "wants you to grasp your dream. Charles has been longing for you." Charles is his childhood friend whom he's got a crush on since forever. They're in a very special relationship. As a friend, I'll definitely feel very guilty if I keep him off his happiness. He's been making all the sacrifices for me for so many years now. He deserves a breather from my misfortune. "I can always find ways to solve this. Don't worry about me, okay?"
But no matter how I try to explain, the worry on his face won't budge.
"Ray, please smile."
"I feel so horrible," he utters after a deep sigh. His forehead creased, and his lips pout. "I can't imagine myself enjoying Europe with the love of my life while my other love is suffering in this part of the globe."
"Problems and sufferings are not forever." I try to sound cheerful. "The next time you'll hear from me, I might be working in a large publishing company as an editor."
He lets out a relieved smile.
"There! Show those deep cute dimples." I tease.
Seeing him smile relieves some of my burden.
"Gaskell." Tom, one of Mr. Nguyen's assistant cooks, comes out of the kitchen. "There's another phone call for you."
Ray quickly puts his index finger to his lips, signaling Tom to lower his voice. This has been his seventh overseas phone call in the midst of the diner's financial crisis. If Mr. Maxwell finds out, a scolding will not be enough for poor Ray.
"He surely can't wait," I tease.
Ray excitedly scoots toward the kitchen, all beaming and shaking. When he's out my sight, I continue the task he left. I am pretty much done with the tables and chairs, and the entire diner smells like Kleenex.
"Hey." The woman in shining body-hugging leather outfit speaks. Her glare at me is almost penetrating. Her mouth is chewing a gum, blowing it to a small pink balloon. She swivels her chair to face me and crosses her legs. Her legs are killer ones, long, thin and wrapped in black net stockings. I never had the chance to study her face earlier, but I think this is the right time to pay attention. With her looks, I think she's an inch higher than a hooker with her heavy makeup, blood red lips, and very low neckline that almost reveals the upper portion of her breasts.
"Yes, ma'am," I answer as I ready myself for her order. Though there are only five minutes left before we close, those minutes are still part of our working hours, and we're paid to serve our customers.
Her eyes drop from my feet and back to my head as though she's conducting a thorough check on me.
"Heard you talk with your friend," she says. Her smile is a little suspicious. "Need a job that pays you more than what you get here? I can help you with that."
Uh-oh, I think I know what she's implying.
"Just get rid of those thick glasses and horrendous bangs, maybe curl your hair at the bottom to accentuate the shape of your face, and trim your eyebrows, then you're good to go. You're tall, and you have badass buns." The grin that escapes her lips sends knots into my stomach. What a bizarre way to describe me! Never have I heard someone compliment me because of my ass. This is the first time.
And surprisingly, I am not offended.
Maybe because she's a woman. If some man made that comment, I would have thrown at him all the chairs I could get my hands on.
"I have a job here, ma'am," I answer as politely as I can.
"It wouldn't be long before this shop closes, right?"
"Sorry, but I lack all the qualifications for your job."
"Oh, no, darling! You're just perfect for it."
What made her say that?
"I lack people skills." By people skills, I mean what her likes do well. This isn't just the ordinary people skills that make the world a competitive arena. This is the extraordinary kind. I think she grasps what I mean as she beams.
"You don't have to be that good in it. Just keep on smiling, and your employer will pay you a hefty sum. He might rehire you again."
"I'm better off as a waitress."
The woman stands up, pulls out a pen from her bag, and scribbles something on a clean piece of tissue. "Contact me when you change your mind. People in dire need couldn't say no to opportunity, darling."
R