Page 46 of What You Left Me

The others give halfhearted nods and start scraping at their plates.

We sit awhile in this lull. I devour my food without looking up. The others are probably doing the same, but I don’t give myself the chance to find out. It’s nice to wrap myself up in the monotony of something as simple as eating, especially when the rest of life seems to be a full-time tornado.

Out of nowhere, Brooke blurts out, “By the way, I think it’s great that you’re gay.” She looks back and forth between Daniel and Turrey as if they’re one singular unit. Her expression is so earnest that it makes the whole thing funnier than it has any right to be.

The darkness loosens its grip on us, just enough to let the barest hint of smiles creep onto our sallow faces.

“Thanks, Brooke,” Daniel answers. He pauses to arch his eyebrow. “I’m also a Sagittarius. And genetically predisposed to hating cilantro. Let me know if you have any feedback on this.”

It can be hard to withstand a Daniel Stetson jab. To her credit, Brooke doesn’t break. She cocks her head and raises her eyebrows. “Your loss. My abuela is an amazing cook. I’d hate for you to miss out on anything she makes with cilantro.”

My phone buzzes in my purse. It’s become such a constant sound that I’ve learned to tune it out completely. I only hear it now because Aminah is rummaging through my purse in search of it. “This is like the sixth time in a row. At least put the thing on airplane mode if you’re going to ignore it this much,” she says. She pulls it out and declines the call, then pulls up the menu. “Here, I’ll just put it on Do Not Disturb. That way it’ll still ring, we won’t have to hear it, but they won’t think you’re dead or something.”

Her slip stills the table.

“Has anyone heard anything else?” Cameron asks, even though we all know the answer. Her attempt to help Aminah out of the awkwardness is valiant but unsuccessful.

We go back to picking at our empty plates.

Spencer’s dad rushes into the cafeteria. He has his hand on his forehead and his eyes squinted in concentration.

“Mr. Kuspits,” Turrey calls out. It’s a relief to have another human to distract us.

“Oh, Mike, hey,” Mr. Kuspits answers, releasing a held breath. As he walks over to us, he doubles back and checks under chairs and beside garbage cans, looking for something. “I lost my wallet. I’ve been everywhere in this damn building trying to find it.”

Cameron holds my arm. “Shoot,” she whispers, sheepish. “I have it, Mr. Kuspits. I’ve been trying to find you and return it.”

Mr. Kuspits cries out in relief. “Thank you! Losing it was the last thing I needed. Where the hell did I leave it?”

“In the ICU waiting room.”

He nods. “Ah. Yep. That’s what I thought.” His shoes click faster against the floor. Cameron hands over his wallet. She takes a deep breath, ready to explain herself further, but he just tucks it into his back pocket without a second glance. “Did you guys hear the news about Marty?”

Anticipation flips over all the new food in my stomach. Brooke grabs my hand.

“We just got back,” Turrey tells him.

“You were smart to head home for a while. A doctor didn’t come talk to us until ten minutes ago. Got about twenty people camped out here, and you take that long to give us information? Not how I’d run things.” He throws his hands up in the air. “They said Marty flatlined during surgery yesterday. They got him back, but they wouldn’t get more specific about how long he was out. Now I think that’s strange, but hey, I’m not the guy in charge.” His hands go up again. “They’re saying something about brain bleeds and brain damage. They’re looking into how bad it is. Marty’s still unconscious.” His face falls, as if the meaning of what he’s said finally registers. He rests his hand on the table, trying to continue but the words seem caught in his throat.

His reaction reminds me of my dad. The need to be informed and keep everyone else informed too. The criticism of incompetence matched with the implication that he could do it better, while also knowing he’d never try. The emotions held way beneath the surface, only drug up by the most extreme circumstances, and even then, never fully breaking through. To know one guy like my dad and Mr. Kuspits is to know all of them, as much as you possibly can know a guy like that.

My phone lights up in my hands. It doesn’t make a sound, just as Aminah promised, but it’s ringing. And of course, it’s my dad. For the first time all weekend, I answer his call. I don’t know why. Impulse distracts me from reality. Only after I put the receiver to my ear does it occur to me how odd a choice it is.

“Petra! Where the hell are you? You haven’t been home since yesterday morning,” he barks into my ear.

“Sorry, Dad,” I say, mostly so everyone knows who I’m talking to, “I’ve been at the hospital.”

He makes a gargled noise as his concern and anger fight over who gets to talk first.

“One of my friends got into a really bad accident,” I tell him before he can choose a victor. The same thing that happened to Mr. Kuspits happens to me. Speaking it aloud makes it hurt.

“We saw that on the news. You need to get home. Right now.”

23

“Is anyone home right now?” Michael questions.

“Shouldn’t be. My parents are out,” Daniel answers. Excitement fogs up his thoughts. It’s happened before, and it’s finally happening again, sober and clearheaded.