7 | Where will you go
LILO~
I know something is wrong as soon as I open the front door.
It's one of those feelings you can't describe- the one that gets written in books as a prickle on the neck, an instinctive urge, a pressing feeling. The hallway feels wrong. It's quiet, but not in the usual way. At once, my heart speeds up in my chest.
"Dad? I'm home!" I call, fumbling to untie my laces. I texted him five minutes ago, like I said I would, but he didn't reply. This didn't feel exactly unusual- Dad may have had his phone turned off or something. Now, I'm beginning to wonder. I kick off my shoes and call again, "Dad?"
There is no reply. I drop my coat and run down the hallway into the kitchen, eyes going immediately to the sofa. There is some sort of shape under the blanket, but not a human shape. I throw back the blanket, and my breath gets caught in my throat.
Dad isn't there. Forcing myself to calm down and breathe more slowly, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room. Then I head up the stairs and peer into Dad's bedroom. I pull back the sheets, the curtains, even throw open the wardrobe. I sink down to the carpet and sit there, feeling numb.
Dad isn't here. He isn't here. How can he not be here?
He can't have left the house- he isn't strong enough and he knows it. He wouldn't be that stupid- and he wouldn't want to worry me. So where is he? If he isn't at home, and he isn't outside-
His dressing-gown is missing from his bed-post. In a flash of inspiration I dash from the room and burst into the bathroom, battling with the faulty handle before practically falling in. What I see at once makes my heart implode inside my chest.
Dad is lying sprawled over the bathroom floor, arms and legs splayed out, smashed glass all around him. A gasp escapes me like someone has punctured my lungs, and I drop to the floor beside him, clapping a hand over my mouth. I don't think I'm breathing. Dad is pale, still, and there is dried blood speckling his hands. I draw in a breath that shakes inside my throat. I can't breathe.
"Lilo?"
Dad's voice is croaky and hoarse- as if he's been shouting my name at the top of his voice while I've been gone. How long has he been lying here, lying in the smashed glass and blood? I take another gasping breath, realising that I haven't taken one in a whole minute. My head won't stop reeling.
"Dad?" I whisper, voice scratching my throat, "Dad? Dad?"
I can't stop repeating it, mumbling over and over, rocking back and forth on the blood-dotted tiles. I don't know what to do. I feel like I've gone numb.
"I- I wanted to get some painkillers from the cabinet," Dad forces out, "The box you left out downstairs was empty. I stood on that stool to reach the box, and I don't know what happened- one minute I was standing, the next I was...down here. I- Lilo, I can't get up-"
There is a tear snaking its way down his cheek, and I gasp again, finding my own eyes welling up. I rub my eyes determinedly, grabbing for Dad's hand. His fingers are shaking.
"Looks like your old man has taken a tumble," Dad tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding like he's sobbing. I press his hand to my face, weeping.
I can't believe I left out the empty painkiller box. I can't believe I didn't check it before I left for Khan's. I can't believe I went to Khan's. I can't believe I left my Dad by himself. This is all my fault, my fault, my fault.
"Dad, I'm sorry-" I hiccup out, "I'm so sorry-"
"This wasn't your fault, Lilo-"
"No, it was! It was my fault!" I'm ugly-crying now, tears mingled with snot, making an absolute mess of my face. I rub my nose, wishing I could stop feeling so numb. I have no idea what to do. I'm always prepared for every situation, but the situations I thought of didn't include finding my Dad lying on the floor in his own blood.
"Hold tight onto me, Dad," I say finally, and my voice sounds about a hundred years old, "I'm going to see if I can get you to your feet. Then I'll see about cleaning up the glass. Where did the glass come from, anyway?"
"Oh- that's the toothbrush mug. I'm so sorry- I knocked it down by accident-"
"Don't worry about it."
I hook my elbows under his arms, anchor my feet and pull with all of my strength, hauling my Dad up to his feet. I keep a hold of him once I have him up, because he's swaying dangerously and I don't trust him to stay standing by himself. Dad leans against the bathroom door, rubbing his forehead, looking disorientated.
"Dad, I think we have to call an ambulance," I whisper.
It's my worst fear coming true. The one thing I've always feared more than anything- asking for help. Because getting help means letting other people in on our life, letting them see how bad it is. Letting them see that, in this house, it's the daughter providing for her father and not the other way round. And that would mean me being taken away.
Separated from Dad.
Dad shakes his head, looking ill. "Lilo- we can't- I only fell over, I'm fine-"
He twists round and retches into the sink. His words sound unclear, slurred even, as if he's been drinking though I know he hasn't. A cold dread sweeps through me, and I grasp Dad's arm tighter than ever.
"Dad, I'm calling 999. You need to get to the hospital- you need help-"
"But Lilo, what about you? Where will you go?"
"I'll find somewhere."
Where I'll go, I honestly have no idea. My fingers are shaking as I take out my phone and turn it on, so badly that I miss-dial the first time and have to jab the numbers in again.
"Your Mum's phone number is in the phonebook downstairs-"
"Dad. No."
"Delilah, baby-"
"I'm not calling Mum, Dad. If she cared about me, she'd be the one calling, not the other way round. I won't call her, I won't."
The phone begins to dial. I hold it to my wet cheek, hoping I won't drop it because of how much my hands are trembling. A calm voice asks me what service I require, and I gasp- I never imagined I'd have to make this call. I can't believe I'm living through a true-life horror story.
"My Dad has fallen. He's- he's hurt- I need an ambulance-"
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"I'm Delilah Lasting..."
"And what is your address, Delilah Lasting?"
I force out our home address, and the voice is gone for a moment as I hear typing and clicking. Then:
"One last thing, Delilah. Are you in a safe place at the moment?"
"I- I don't-"
I peer around the bathroom, blood spraying the walls and floor-tiles, glass everywhere like tiny diamonds, my Dad swaying beside me and his vomit splashed in the sink. I feel like throwing up myself.
"I don't know," I whisper, and hang up.
The ambulance wails and yowls as it parks outside our house barely five minutes later, the flashing blue lights and white-clad paramedics making me feel even more like I'm in some hospital drama rather than real life. I don't feel like this is real life. I watch Dad being helped downstairs and out through the front door as if through a fog. A female paramedic is standing beside me in the hallway, her arm around my shoulder, but I hardly feel it.
"It's a good thing that you called us when you did," she says to me, "Much longer, and we may not have been able to get here in time. You know what's wrong with him, don't you?"
"Stroke," I whisper. I knew as soon as I heard his slurring voice.
"Is it just you and your father living in here, then?"
The lie comes to my tongue so quickly, it doesn't even feel like I'm not telling the truth. My mouth acts before my brain can even register what I'm saying properly.
"My Mum is away on a business trip abroad. She'll be back next Tuesday."
The woman nods. I don't look up into her face to check if she believes me.
"We will have to keep your Dad in with us overnight," she says in reply, "Possibly more than one night. Do you have anyone you could stay with in the meantime- an auntie or uncle nearby?"
"Can't I go to the hospital with Dad?" I plead, grabbing the woman's hand before I realise what I'm doing, "Please, I want to be there for him. Let me ride in the ambulance with him!"
"I don't think that's the best idea-"
"Please."
I must sound as desperate as I feel, because the paramedic sighs and nods. She squeezes my shoulders. I imagine this is what having a mother must feel like. The thought makes me feel like crying.
Following Dad's trolley through the many corridors of the hospital feels like I'm swimming through a sea of despair. People pass by me without me noticing their faces; people wearing masks and carrying trays of tools; people pushing trolleys with patients like the one Dad is in. I stumble along behind the doctors escorting Dad, tripping over my shoelaces, but I don't dare ask to stop and tie them properly. I can't waste any of the precious seconds Dad has to get to help. It seems to take an age to reach Accident and Emergency.
"Girl, I can't allow you to come in here," says one of the doctors, turning to me and holding the door with his hand before I can follow the trolley in, "Only partners or parents. You're under eighteen-"
"I'm seventeen in two months!"
"Still not eighteen."
I clasp my face with my hands. "Please, I'm begging you, that's my Dad!"
"If you can give me Mrs Lasting's phone number, we can call her with regular updates on your father's condition."
"There is no Mrs Lasting," I snap, anger finally taking over.
He closes the door in my face.
I collapse into one of the seats in the corridor outside, head in my hands, no idea what to do. I can't go home, not whilst Dad is here. I can't go in with Dad. There are so many emotions buzzing around in my head right now, I can't even begin to navigate them.
A flash of golden hair catches my eye, and I look up to see a family of three making their way out of a door some way down the corridor. There's a Mum in tight jeans, a boy in a wheelchair, and a girl whose face is streaked with the remains of tears and red blotches. As I watch, the girl sniffs hard and rubs her face, hair limp and straggly as if she hasn't brushed it in days.
"Stop crying like a little baby, stupid girl," the woman snaps, glaring at her daughter. Something must've gone wrong with the wheelchair wheels, because it seems to be stuck, unmoving. The Mum kicks at the wheels, teeth gritted, face contorted with anger. Finally she throws up her arms and lets out a furious sound, causing the little boy inside the wheelchair to start crying.
"Not you too- you're not a little girl, for god's sake!" the woman growls, shoving at the chair again, "You two had better shut it, or I'll smack you into tomorrow when we get home. Now help me sort out this chair, you useless girl."
"Mum," the girl whispers, "Mum, you're upsetting Seb-"
Strapped into his chair, Seb is bawling his eyes out. The woman stares at him for a few seconds, mouth twisted in an ugly scowl, before bursting into tears herself and collapsing against the wall beside her, sobbing into her hands. The girl gasps and reaches for her mother, wrapping her arms around her, rubbing her back as if she hadn't just been called 'useless' by the same woman.
The girl turns round, and I freeze as she meets my eye.
It's Caroline.
Her face stiffens as she stares at me, before her expression morphs into one of fury and rage. I feel myself start trembling, but before Caroline can do anything a nurse steps out of the A&E and walks purposefully towards me, the door swinging shut behind him. He sits down beside me, and a crowd of white-clad hospital staff bustle down the corridor, filling up most of the space. By the time they've passed through, Caroline and her family are gone.
"They tell me you're Mr Lasting's daughter," the nurse says softly, looking intently into my face, "Your mother is away on a business trip?"
I nod, still reeling from seeing Caroline.
"Do you have anyone you could stay with until your Dad is discharged?" he asks, and I hesitate.
I do have someone in mind- someone who has been in my head since the female paramedic first suggested staying with someone back at the house. I've tried pushing the idea out of my head, but I can't think of anyone else. It has really gotten to me having no choice. My ears are ringing as I nod, ringing with disbelief at what I'm about to do, who I'm about to ask for a life-saving favour from. Not because I'm afraid of what will happen if Mum says no, but because I'm afraid of what will happen if Mum says yes.
But first, there's someone else I need to speak to.
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