Page 167 of The Enemy Protector
I’m the man my mother hoped I could be.
39
Sofia
I’m leaving class on my way to the SUV when my phone buzzes. The number on the screen is one I don't recognize. I almost let it go to voicemail. Then I see the area code and I know.
“Everything okay?” Nelson asks.
“I don’t know.”
I answer and listen to the woman from the hospital on the other end. It's a patient coordinator. My father has been moved to palliative care. As his power of attorney, there are forms that require my signature. She's very professional about it. The worddyingisn’t said once in the conversation, but it's in every word.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” I reply.
“Should I call Sergei?” Nelson asks.
“No. He’s got his hands full.”
“Where are we going?”
“Hospital.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
He nods and we keep walking toward the SUV. I still have a full contingent of guards. Nelson tells the driver to take us to the hospital.
Nelson doesn't say anything in the car. He sent the requisite text to Sergei. I’m not upset. I know it’s his job, and Sergei keeps close tabs on me out of love.
The hospital is on the Upper East Side. Private. Expensive.
The coordinator meets me at the desk. She walks me through the forms efficiently. I sign where she indicates. I don't read everything. I don’t care what any of it is.
"He's asked to see you," she says.
I look up. "He asked?"
"This morning. He’s been heavily medicated since he came in yesterday.”
I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my face. We’ve said our goodbyes.
"What room?" I ask. She points down the hall.
Nelson walks me down and stops outside the door. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.
I stand there with my hand flat against the wall beside the door frame. Not touching the door. Not ready yet.
I've been trying to figure out what I want from this since we left the brownstone. I'm not here for an apology. I know better thanto expect one from a man like him. I'm not here for closure, either. I don't think that's something a hospital room can give me.
I think I just want him to know.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I can stop it. A habit now, automatic, like checking for my knife. I press my palm flat and feel the small, insistent warmth of it.
He's going to die today or tomorrow or the day after. And he's going to do it not knowing that the things he spent twenty-one years trying to control, me, my choices, my future, are already decided. Already alive. Already more his than he deserves and more mine than he can touch.
I'm going to walk into that room carrying his grandchild he will never meet. I'm going to stand over him and let him look at me, and he's going to see that I'm still here. That she's still here. That everything he tried to bury is standing in front of him in the last hours of his life and there is nothing, not one single thing, he can do about it.
