How did it feel talking to mom? Nerve-wracking.
Do I care that dad had a heart attack? Yes.
Why? He’s my dad. He could die; mom said things don’t look good. The last time I saw him, I hated him. Okay, that’s not true. I felt indifferent to my parents at that point. They broke my heart when I was 14, and then I was extremely angry for a few years until one day I woke up and I was over it. Over them. We coexisted in the house basically keeping out of each other’s way, not speaking at all. And we were all okay with it. I didn’t want to speak to people who didn’t believe me, want to help me, or stick by my side. No thank you.
But no one was about to die during that time.
It’s not until Serena wraps her arms around me that I realize I’m still on the bathroom floor sobbing hysterically—who knows how long I’ve been down here. She doesn’t ask me any questions, just cradles me close to her chest like a baby. And it’s just what I need.
Chapter twenty-six
My bags are packed and I’m slumped over in my airplane seat on a red-eye to Florida. After picking myself up off the bathroom floor, Serena helped me find the earliest flight. I’m coming mommy dearest.
Chicago to Orlando—about three hours.
Headphones in and sleep mask on. I look like your average ‘don’t talk to me’ passenger on the flight. Drifting off to sleep I’m awoken by the flight attendant. Looking around the plane I see everyone else is gone. I slept through the entire flight and de-boarding process. That’s a first.
I find the baggage claim and see the last lonely bag slowly making its way around the carousel. It’s a sad sight really. I glance over and see a set of parents eagerly excited to welcome their daughter home. She’s about my age. Her parents are smiling so wide I think they are about to break their faces. She’s engulfed into a huge group hug.
A part of me wants to make a bitter comment about how nauseating that must be. But to be honest, I’m bitter because I’m jealous. I don’t think anyone has ever looked as happy to see me a day in my life. I like to think that when I was a child my parents were happy about my existence, but truthfully, I don’t remember them ever being warm and welcoming.
I know not to look around for mom. I head out of the airport and straight to the taxi cab line outside.
“One?” A small man asks waving me forward in the line.
“Is the lonest number …” I reply.
“What?” He looks truly confused.
“Sorry—yes one.”
“Number four.”
And just like that I’m in a yellow taxi rushing through the Orlando streets on the way to my parents’ home. My parents. I don’t even feel comfortable enough to call it ‘my’ home, like so many people I know do when referencing their childhood homes.
We pull up to the house about twenty minutes later. All the lights are off. Mom knew what time I was getting in; I guess I’ll see her tomorrow? I tip the driver and head inside, wheeling my luggage behind me. Yet another sad sight. I will not let this experience slip me back into becoming the shell of a person I was when I lived here. I fought so hard not to be her anymore.
I’m half-surprised to see that my key still fits in the lock and opens the front door. Normally an alarm would go off but mom must have disabled it for tonight—at least she did that for me. I’m going to guess she didn’t want to be bothered by me setting it off this late. I hit the flashlight button on my phone and head straight to my old room upstairs trying to be as quiet as possible. It’s a blast from the past when I open the door.
Nothing has changed since I moved out. It’s nauseating. It’s not because my parents are trying to hold on to my memories—they just don’t want to sort through my belongings. I change into a pair of pajamas and crawl under the purple covers of my twin bed and drift to sleep for the second time tonight.
Cabinets slamming around startle me awake. I open my eyes nearly having a panic attack upon seeing where I am.
How the fuck did I get here?
It’s then the blur of last night’s flight comes back to me and I take in a good look at the bedroom I’m sleeping in. Purple walls donning Backstreet Boys posters—I’m stuck in my 14-year-old life. I lived here until I was 18, but after my parents made it clear they didn’t believe me, I didn’t make this place any more of a ‘home’ than I needed to four years prior.
I wonder what the homes Luke lived in looked like. I can’t believe I just thought about Luke. I’ve been so good with not giving him much space in my mind.
You’re under a lot of stress.
The cabinets have not stopped slamming, which was a trick my mom used to pull when she wanted to wake my dad up.
I stumble down the stairs to face whatever mood my mother is in. In the daylight I see most of the house has been completely remodeled. It’s all upgraded—granite, hard wood, marble, mud room, you name it. It’s nice to see their lives are going well.
I stop dead in my tracks when I see my mom in the kitchen. She has her back to me, giving me a second to collect my scrambling thoughts. I feel like a child again. Why is this happening to me? I am a grown up—I am a doctor; I can surely handle this woman I spent years ignoring.
“Good morning mom,” I manage to say as I take a seat at the kitchen table. She turns around from the coffee pot and I see the stress on her normally primp and proper face. “How’s dad?”
She places a cup of coffee in front of me and takes a seat. If it wasn’t this early in the morning, I would be utterly shocked that she gave me something.
“After his heart attack they noticed a few heart complications and want to monitor him. I usually go to the hospital when visiting hours start, which is in about an hour. Get ready.”
Just like that she excuses herself from the table, leaving me alone in the kitchen. After news like this, I’ve seen hundreds—maybe even thousands—of families rally around each other to console one another in their time of need. I guess we are not going to be doing that in this house.
Facing mom was one thing. Dad is going to be an entirely different battle. When I get back to my room to pick out some kind of outfit for the day, I see a missed text message on my phone—
Are you there? Girl, at least send your friend a text! xox Serena
For the first time since I’ve landed in Orlando, I smile.
Sorry! I’m here, sleeping in my old room. How weird! Haven’t seen my dad yet, going in about an hour. I’ll text you later!
Mom doesn’t take shit from anyone and she’s definitely not going to wait around for me if I’m late. I don’t feel like taking another cab so I jump in the shower at lightning speed and head downstairs to wait for her. Of course, she’s already there, this time looking like your regular Stepford Wife. We get in the car and drive in complete silence to the hospital.
I should be used to this—the whole not-talking-to-my-parents thing—but for some reason it makes me sad.
They should have been in your life to protect you.
I hear Luke’s voice cloud my thoughts, remembering what he said when I told him about being raped. Glancing over at my mom I take in her stoic profile. She should have protected me, but she didn’t—can I just forgive her now and let it all go? But that’s a whole other issue that I won’t be getting an answer for today.
We pull into the hospital parking lot and my mom navigates the beige colored hallways like she’s the president of the hospital. As we walk through the lobby, several nurses and physicians stop to say hello or wave at her as we make our way to the Cardiac ICU. She completely transforms in front of other people—long gone is the face of the woman who sat in the car not speaking a word to her daughter after years. Instead, she’s the bubbly woman who people see as a saint.
The thought of forgiveness slips away a bit.
“This is his room,” she says as we come to a stop before a door. “Don’t alarm him,” she utters in a tight-lipped smile. Goodbye saint.
“Mom, I’m a doctor. I know how to talk to a heart at
tack patient.”
She rolls her eyes at me like she couldn’t care less what I just said and pushes the door open.
Just like the moment in the kitchen with mom, I freeze staring at my dad lying in this bed. Mom gives me a little push from behind and I walk into the room. Usually looking like a modern day John Wayne, my dad intimidates even the manliest of men with his stature; however, now he looks like a shadow of that man.
Planting a fake smile on my face I say, “Hi dad.”
Part of me feels bad for how fake I’m being. Just days before getting this news, these two people meant absolutely nothing to me.
“Ariana, you’re here,” dad says, looking weak and surprised.
“How are you feeling?” I take a seat in the chair at the foot of his bed.
“Like absolute shit,” he says with a half-ass smile. It’s weird to hear my dad swear. My parents usually act so proper. I’ve never heard either of them ‘lower themselves’—as they’d think—to say a ‘bad’ word.
“You look good,” I lie, trying to console him.
He laughs. “That’s a terrible lie but I appreciate it. Enough about me. How are you?”
I’m thrown a little by the question since my mom has yet to ask me anything about how I’m doing. I turn around and realize my mom didn’t follow me into the room.
“Looking for your mother? She’s probably off telling some doctor or another how they should be doing their job.”
First swearing, then asking me about myself, and now poking fun at mom. What did this heart attack do to my dad? He’s a changed man and it’s freaking me the fuck out.
“I can only imagine the kind of hell she’s giving them,” I say, laughing and feeling thankful that I am not on this hospital staff.
“How’s your residency?” dad asks before taking a sip of water from the plastic cup on his tray.
“My residency? How did you know about that?”
Dad puts down his empty cup before saying, “You think because you’re in Chicago, I don’t have ways to keep track of you?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to even if you could.”
The words slip out and I immediately wish I could take them back. It’s not that they aren’t true; it’s just that I don’t feel like adding anything else to his list of worries right now.
“That’s a fair statement. Things aren’t the best with us, haven’t been in awhile, have they?”
I’m utterly in shock. Our conversation is cut short when mom and a nurse walk into the room, mom shouting at her for the type of care he’s receiving. Or as mom thinks the lack of care. The nurse rolls her eyes like she’s had enough of my mom’s drama, but she picks up the chart.
“How are you feeling today, Mr. Bellisano?”
“How do you think he’s feeling? A heart attack then catheterization, yet he’s still having an elevated heart rate. Something is wrong. Why can’t you explain this?”
Mom doesn’t hold back a thing.
“Could I look at his chart?” I speak up.
“Who are you?” The nurse asks, giving me an up and down look.
I extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Ariana Bellisano, Mr. Bellisano’s daughter.”
She gives me a pointed glare. “I’ll have to check with Mr. Bellisano’s physician to see if he cares if you look over his charts.”
“Okay, you do that. And keep me posted.”
My dad laughs and my mom looks surprised yet proud that I stuck up for dad. Oh for the love of god, I’m becoming rude just like her.
The uptight nurse takes the chart and leaves the room in a dramatic show. What a diva. I make a mental note to never act like that in the hospital, or in life really.
Dad drifts off to sleep with mom, and I sit down and read the magazines on the table. It’s comfortable yet awkward at the same time. I should be able to just sit and relax with my parents. But I don’t really know these people even though they have major titles in my life: mom, dad.
An hour passes before the door swings open and an middle-aged gentlemen in blue scrubs strolls into the room holding my dad’s chart, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“You must be the daughter,” he says, eyeing me up and down.
“You must be the physician who guards the charts?” I return the eye glare. Two can play at that game.
He laughs and the ice seems to be broken between us. The nurse returns and stands at his side. She doesn’t seem as sassy anymore.
“Here you go,” the physician—I see with the last name “Dixon” on the badge clipped to his scrub top—says before handing over the medical chart. The nurse looks a little taken back at his instant trust but doesn’t question him.
I flip the folder open and read every word carefully, over and over.
After he was brought in for a heart attack, he had an invasive procedure testing for heart disease. It looks like things went smoothly in clearing his blockage but dad is still feeling extremely weak. Slight discomfort is normal, but dad looks rough. What could be wrong with him?
“That’s what we are trying to figure out,” Dr. Dixon says.
I guess I was rambling that information out loud.
“Can you run another test?”
“Are you questioning the results?” The nurse decides at this moment she’s going to speak up, but the physician gives me a reassuring look, not even glancing her way.
“We certainly could do another test. I want to do another procedure. However, the staff let me know your father’s insurance will not cover that.”
At this point my mom, who I’m surprised remained silent this far, speaks up. “This is about money? Give him the test again. We’ll pay.”
Dr. Dixon turns to the nurse, “Let the team know that Mr. Bellisano will be down for another procedure this afternoon.”
The nurse’s face says she wants to fight him on this, to fight us for questioning her, but she does as she’s told and leaves the room.
I look over towards the hospital bed and dad is now awake from his nap. I’m not sure if he saw the entire exchange, but he gives me a small smile.
Is that the look of pride? I’d have no clue what that would look like.
My emotions are all over the place right now. I take a seat and pick up my magazine again. I read the same stupid article about some Real Housewife going to jail over and over again, yet I’ve never really looked at the words.
“You have anyone special in your life Ari?” dad asks as mom puts down her magazine to listen.
Why do they care?
I should tell them the truth about how I couldn’t even let men touch me, even in a friendly way, until just recently. Until Luke. But I can’t seem to bring any of that up right now.
Luke, Luke, Luke.
I’ve been doing so great not giving him space in my mind … until this goddamn trip. Why does he keep coming up in everything that I’m doing? My brain should be busy doing other things, like worrying about my dad.
“No, no one special.”
“You should really think about settling down because you aren’t getting any younger,” mom chimes in with her stellar words of wisdom.
“I’ve been focused on my residency. No time for dating,” I say, laughing off her bitchy comment and pretending that it doesn’t get to me.
Why does it get to me?
Just months ago I would have laughed at a comment like that because a relationship wouldn’t mean anything to me, so who cares how old I am. I wanted a career as a doctor and that was it. Nothing more, nothing less.
I never wanted a husband.
I never wanted children.
I never wanted love.
But I think all that changed within these past few months because of Luke.
“Don’t pressure her, Diane. I’m sure if someone worthy of her comes into her life, she’ll settle down and let us know.”
I pass off a small smile to try to end this conversation, a conversation I don’t think my parents truly deserve
the right to know anything about.
Yes, I thought I found a man worthy of settling down with. I thought we were having a great time together. I thought wrong. Luke so easily pushed me out of his life … his car … without so much as an explanation. I don’t want to go through that again.
A different nurse walks into the room with a smile on her face, pushing in a gurney.
“Gabe, you ready to go for a ride?” She laughs towards my dad. Instantly, I feel at ease for the first time since I got the call about his heart attack. All it took was a kind face.
“Let’s rock and roll, young lady,” dad says before we help him out of the bed and onto the gurney. He huffs and puffs that he doesn’t need our help but I see the struggle in his face. He’s in pain.
Dad is wheeled out of the room and I give him a little wave goodbye before he rounds the corner with the nurse. I’m suddenly very tired.
I’ve seen many heart attack patients leave the hospital with a couple medications and a list of lifestyle changes. But dad’s heart attack is serious. Potentially deadly. For the first time since I was 14 I am talking to my dad … and I could lose him. I get up from the chair next to my mom and pace the room. I can’t sit still—I need to do something.
“We need to stay strong,” mom says. Looking over at her I notice she’s drying her tears. I didn’t even see her start to cry with all my pacing. “He’s going to pull through this.”
Hearing her say that makes me feel a little better. As a doctor, I know she’s just guessing to make herself feel better; she has no real knowledge of the procedure, but I don’t care. My mom says he’s going to pull through—he better.
But they’ve lied to me before.
I can’t think like that right now. I shouldn’t think about the reality of my relationship with my parents at a time like this. At a time when dad could die and we spent years upon years completely shutting each other out, can I forgive them? If we are going to be honest, I forgave them years ago. I just thought I didn’t need them in my life whatsoever so I got along fine without them. And up until right now, that was true.
The Power of Salvation Page 21