The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  My heart stopped. He was in a pile on the floor beside his unmade bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

  “God damn it, Hap,” I rushed across the room. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  I knelt at his side and felt for a pulse. Although it was faint, he had one. His skin was hot to the touch and pale in color.

  I hoisted him over my shoulder. As I rushed toward the door, I dialed 911 on my cell phone.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “My father’s unconscious and he’s got a high fever. Where’s the closest hospital?” I huffed.

  “Has he been exposed to anyone who’s tested positive—”

  “Where’s the closest fucking hospital?!” I bellowed. “I haven’t got time for your bullshit.”

  “Sir, I’ll need you to answer a few—”

  “I’m at 648 Wichita Avenue and I’m loading him in my car now. Where’s the closest hospital?”

  I opened the back door of my SUV. My phone clattered across the drive. I slid Hap onto the seat, situated him, and shut the back door.

  After retrieving my phone, I got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I pressed the navigation button on the steering wheel and spoke into the car’s interior. “Drive to the nearest hospital.”

  The vehicle’s navigation system responded. “Drive to the nearest hospital, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Driving to Scripps Mercy Hospital, 4077 5th Avenue, San Diego, California. Please turn right on Wichita Avenue.”

  I backed out of the driveway, shifted into gear, and stomped the gas pedal. The supercharged V-8 engine shot the SUV down the street like a rocket.

  “Stay with me, Old Man,” I said, searching for his reflection in the rearview mirror. “We’ll be there before you know it. This fucker’s a lot faster than the old Cadillac of yours, that’s for sure.”

  The vehicles phone rang.

  I pressed the steering control and answered it. “Rourke.”

  “This is the 911 operator. We were cut off.”

  “I’m taking him to Scripps Mercy on 5th. Tell them I’m en route. Ten minutes. Less than ten. If someone tries to pull me over, I’m not stopping.”

  “Is the person in question male or female?”

  “Male.”

  “Age?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “Does he have a pulse?”

  “Yes, it’s faint.”

  “Any known health issues or concerns?”

  “None.”

  “Allergies?”

  “None.”

  “Has he been exposed to anyone who has tested positive for COVID-19?”

  “He hasn’t been exposed to anyone. He’s been home, alone, for two weeks.”

  “Your name?”

  “Rourke. Romeo, Oscar, Uniform, Romeo, Kilo, Echo.”

  “Hold please…”

  A faint voice could still be heard. “This is SD County Sherriff dispatch, I have one en route, ETA 11:13, high fever, faint pulse, no known exposure to COVID-19.”

  The voice became more prominent. “Rourke, Scripps is asking that you reroute to—”

  “Reroute? I’m not rerouting to anywhere.” Luckily the freeway was nearly empty. Traveling at 120 miles an hour, I changed lanes to keep from hitting an Amazon delivery truck. “I’m goddamned near there, right now.”

  “Sir, the hospital’s ICU is nearly at capacity with COVID-19 patients. If he hasn’t had exposure to anyone with COVID-19, they’re asking—”

  I pressed the button on the steering wheel to hang up the call. “Go fuck yourself.”

  I drifted from the fast lane to the exit lane, still traveling in excess of 120 miles an hour.

  “Rourke, are you still with me?”

  “I told you to go fuck yourself,” I snarled. I pressed the button again. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Mister Rourke, Mercy is asking that you redirect to—”

  “I’m not going anywhere else, asshole.” The hospital was just off the Cabrillo Freeway, within eyesight. “I can see the hospital,” I declared. “Have them outside at the emergency room entrance.”

  “Hold please…”

  I heard mumbling, and then he returned. “They’ll be beneath the awning with a stretcher. You won’t be able to enter the facility, Mister Rourke. It’s on lockdown.”

  I took the Washington Street exit at over 100 miles an hour, and then immediately took a right on 5th. The hospital was 300 yards away.

  “He’s not a fucking dog,” I said, pointing the front of the vehicle toward the hospital’s entrance. I stomped the gas pedal. “I’m not dropping him off.”

  “Sir, visitors are prohibited from—”

  “I’m not a fucking visitor,” I snapped. “I’m the only family this man has.”

  I careened over the curb and screeched to a stop beneath the emergency room awning, right beside where two men wearing hazmat suits and full Personal Protective Equipment stood.

  Between them was a stretcher.

  I rolled down the window. “He’s in the back.”

  They loaded him onto the gurney and began taking his vitals. As one of the two men wheeled him into the hospital, the other pointed an electronic thermometer at my forehead.

  “Stand still,” he said.

  “I’m going with him,” I argued.

  “You’re not going anywhere until I take your temperature,” he said. He paused, looked at the device’s screen, and then gave me a nod. “Ninety-eight-point-eight.”

  I burst through the door and rushed toward the man who was wheeling my father down the corridor.

  Two armed guards stepped in front of me. Both were wearing respirators. “Sorry,” one of them said. “No one is allowed beyond—”

  “That’s my father,” I barked, pointing toward the rapidly disappearing gurney. “I’m going where he goes.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” the second one stated. “No one is allowed beyond the lobby.”

  I had news for him. Neither of them was big enough to stop me. Armed or not, they weren’t going to intimidate me into leaving my father.

  I cleared my throat. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. That’s my father.”

  “Sir,” he said, raising the tone of his voice an octave. “If you venture beyond the lobby you will be arrested.” He placed his hand beside his weapon. “This hospital is on lockdown. For your, and for everyone else’s protection.”

  I glanced at his hand. I met his cold gaze. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. My protection?”

  “Believe me,” he responded. “It’s for your own safety. We’ve got the entire ICU filled with infected.”

  I noticed the crown of an anchor peeking from beneath his shirt sleeve. I nodded toward it. “Military?”

  He gave a curt nod. “Marines.”

  “I was with the two-seven,” I said. “Twenty years.”

  “Ooh-rah,” he said. “The three-nine.”

  “Semper fi, do or die.” I glanced over each shoulder, and then stepped in front of him. “Tell me something, would you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Between two Marines.” I leaned close to him. “This is just you and me talking. Is this shit real?”

  He seemed puzzled. “What shit’s that?”

  “This COVID-19 bullshit,” I said. “It’s bullshit, right?”

  His eyes responded long before he opened his mouth. He nodded his head. “This hospital is nearly at capacity, all from COVID-19. They’re losing 3-4 patients a day from respiratory failure. Patients are going from healthy to critical overnight. Young, old, healthy, unhealthy. It doesn’t matter. This disease doesn’t discriminate. It’s as real as it gets.”

  I glanced the length of the corridor. My father was gone. With him went my certainty that all would be well.

  I lowered myself into the nearest chair and did something I hadn’t done since the war.

  I began to pray.

  Anna

  Day
one.

  The exhaust note from Braxton’s SUV caught my attention. It was almost six o’clock. He’d been gone since just before noon. I peered outside just in time to catch a glimpse of him carrying a brown paper bag through his front door.

  I wondered what he’d done all day. I doubted any of it was essential.

  It frustrated me that he took time to send me a message, but never bothered to reply after I responded. It was painfully obvious his offer to apologize lacked sincerity. In Marge’s eyes he was a saint. In reality he was an inconsiderate self-centered prick.

  With my phone paired to the television’s surround sound, I scrolled through my playlist. Upon finding Lady Gaga’s I’ll Never Love Again, I pressed play.

  Listening to the song on loop, I contemplated sending him Braxton another message. I needed to tell him that he was an utter and complete asshole. While I mentally formulated the tongue lashing, a one sentence message popped up on my phone.

  Can you come to your front door? I’m at mine.

  I walked to the front door and opened it.

  Braxton stood in his doorway with his arms dangling at his sides like strings. Wearing a stark white tank top, dark washed jeans, and a pair of dress socks, he appeared out of place. His attire wasn’t the only thing that was different. His face wore a distressed look.

  It seemed as though he’d been defeated.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “This is day one,” he deadpanned.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Day one,” he said. “Of fourteen.”

  “Oh. You did get my text message,” I said in as sarcastic of a tone as I could muster. “I didn’t think it went through, not having heard back from you and all. I thought maybe the cell towers were overloaded with people streaming Netflix on their iPhones.”

  “I tested positive,” he said flatly.

  My stomach turned. In my haste to hate fuck him, we didn’t bother to use a condom. The last thing I needed in my life was an STD.

  “For what?” I blurted.

  He swallowed hard. I prayed it was something an antibiotic could cure. I didn’t want a lifelong reminder of the poor decisions I’d made when it came to sex.

  “COVID-19,” he replied. “Presumptive positive, anyway. I’ll know for sure in a day or two,”

  My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. “What!?” I gasped. “How?”

  I knew how. He’d been running around like there was nothing to worry about. I had to ask, nevertheless. No matter how he contracted it, I wouldn’t wish the disease on anyone. The thought of losing him, no matter how much of a prick he could be, was heartbreaking.

  He raised his hand and took a bite of a sandwich. I wondered if he had it in his pocket, because I hadn’t even realized he was holding it.

  “My father is on a respirator fighting for his life in Mercy Hospital,” he said over the mouthful of food. “He’s been in contact with no one, other than me. I touched him, carried him to the car, and we’ve shared cooking utensils in the last few days. They gave me some chicken-shit test. They said it’s inaccurate. They’re assuming I’m positive. The results from the real test won’t be until day after tomorrow, at best.”

  I felt sick. I needed to say something reassuring, but I didn’t know what I could share that might make him feel any better.

  I put on a false smile. “I saw this morning that a man in Iraq survived, and he was 103 years old. Then, there was this woman in Spain that was 101. She went home yesterday. How old is your father?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “Pfft,” I waved my hand in his direction. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be just fine. Wait and see.”

  “They won’t let me see him.” He lifted the sandwich, looked at it, and then lowered it without taking a bite. “I can’t even get into the hospital.”

  “Probably for the best,” I said. “They’re trying to contain the spread.”

  He nodded, repeatedly. Almost mindlessly. When his head stopped bobbing, he looked up. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Being inconsiderate. For constantly coming and going while the rest of the state is on lockdown. For not believing this pandemic was real. For leaving the other night when Mica came. I guess I’m apologizing for being a prick.”

  I hated to rub salt into an open wound, but I wasn’t going to accept his apology if it wasn’t heartfelt. As things stood, I wasn’t sure if he was sincere or not. Having Braxton disappoint me again wasn’t going to do me any good whatsoever. If I accepted his apology without an explanation, I would potentially set myself up for being hurt again.

  “I’m not going to accept your apology just because you’re feeling sorry for yourself,” I said. “If you truly mean it, I mean truly mean it, I’ll consider it.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me to offer an apology to you in the first place,” he explained. “It’s not something I do very often. When you sent that text message asking for fourteen days, it pissed me off. All along, I thought this disease was nothing but bullshit. I know now that it’s not. You were right, I was wrong. As far as I can tell, my father got infected from me. I don’t know how else he could have contracted it, honestly. Me being inconsiderate has risked his life. By requesting fourteen days from me, all you were trying to do was protect yours.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said.

  He looked at the sandwich. Seeming disgusted, he blindly tossed it over his shoulder, into his house. He wiped his hand on the thigh of his jeans. “Want to start over?”

  I stared in disbelief. “Whaaa?”

  “Start over,” he said. “At the beginning.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Do you want to?”

  “Where’s the beginning of this mess?”

  He seemed surprised at my response. “Mess? You think this has been a—”

  “Don’t act like it’s been anything but a mess.”

  “Alright. I’ll give you that,” he said. “Fine, it has been a mess. To make it better, let’s roll the clock back to where I tossed that guy in your trunk. We’ll act like everything after that never happened. How’s that sound?”

  “Pretty good.” I hoped to remain emotionless. I grinned a giddy smile, instead. “Hi. I’m Anna Wilson.”

  “Name’s Rourke,” he said. “Braxton Rourke. Nice to meet you.”

  “Do you ever smile, Rourke, Braxton Rourke?”

  “I’ve been known to from time to time,” he replied. “When the mood strikes me.”

  I lifted my tee shirt to my chin, exposing my very naked boobs for him to ogle. I hadn’t worn a bra since the entire COVID-19 thing started. I hoped at some point my lack of lingerie would come in handy. It seemed my prayers had been answered.

  At least one of them, anyway.

  “Damn.” He wagged his brows. “Is that standard procedure when you meet a man?”

  “Not for all of them,” I replied. “Only the cute ones.”

  He choked on a laugh. “I’m cute?”

  In his jeans, tee shirt, and socks he was adorable. I offered him a smile of reassurance. “Yes, you are.”

  He may have blushed a little. It was hard to tell, because his beard hadn’t been trimmed in a few days.

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “So am I.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for him.” I pointed at the sky. “I’m in tight with the man upstairs.”

  He winced. “I’m not sure where I stand with him. If I was forced to guess, I’d say I’m pretty low on the totem pole. Wouldn’t hurt to have someone else asking for favors, that’s for sure.”

  “Consider it done.”

  He pointed behind his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m going to go pick that drive-thru sandwich up off the floor and make something else to eat. Do this again, sometime?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll have my people get with your people and set something up.”

  “I’ll look f
orward to it,” I said. “It was sure nice to meet you, Rourke, Braxton Rourke.”

  “Likewise.”

  Braxton

  Day two.

  I paced the floor like a nervous cat. My father’s lungs were failing. His only hope for survival was the respirator that was doing the breathing for him. The hospital couldn’t give me any information beyond “we’re doing all we can”, no matter how frequently I called or who I talked to.

  What little time I wasn’t pacing the floor, I was sitting at the kitchen island on my laptop, reading practices, procedures, and professional opinions of how to stop the disease from attacking the respiratory system of its victims.

  There wasn’t anything that had been proven. Not yet. There were only theories based on opinions. Nothing—not one procedure—was backed with facts or statistics.

  Filled with frustration, I questioned the existence of God. How could a compassionate and caring God allow anything so deadly and unpredictable to encompass the globe? Why did he allow the world’s most intelligent minds to scratch their heads in wonder, clueless of what to do to treat the novel virus?

  I took my temperature every thirty minutes, only to find that nothing had changed. The disease may have been highly contagious, but it wasn’t predictable.

  I wanted to trade places with my father. I’d give anything to be fighting for my own life and allow my him to healthily pace the kitchen floor, worried. He’d lived through one of the deadliest wars the United States had ever seen. For a virus to take his life without warning or reason seemed unfair.

  Pratt called repeatedly, but I didn’t answer. To hear “I told you so” or “I warned you” would only worsen matters. I needed to find a way to dig myself out of the state of depression I was in, not fall deeper into it. Pratt was going to have to wait.

  Mindlessly, I marched through the living room and did an about-face when I reached the northern wall. I headed toward the kitchen. Upon reaching the sink, I turned around and started over, again. At the rate I was going, I’d have a path worn into the finish of the hardwood flooring in no time.

  Midway through my 1,374th lap for the day, a knock at my door startled me out of the hypnotic state I’d slipped into.