by Loretta Lost
Clearing my throat, I grab my phone and hand it to Cole. “Can you call the hospitals around Brownsville and see where Jimmy Larson is?”
“Sure,” he says, taking the phone with puzzlement. “But why do we need to call? Can’t you just hack the hospital records in like three seconds?”
My eyes flit nervously toward him, and then back to the road. “Yeah, sure. I could! But I’m driving.”
“Okay,” he says, opening Google Maps, and beginning the search. “Hmmm. Brookdale Hospital? One reviewer calls it ‘broke hell’ hospital, and several of them say you shouldn’t go there if you want to survive. They can’t believe it’s still open for business. There is blood splattered all over the walls, and apparently, the psych ward consists of dirty mattresses on the floor, infested with bedbugs. They say it looks like a homeless shelter.”
I turn to look at him in shock. “You’re making that up.”
“Nope.”
“Um. That kind of makes me want to turn around and drive back to Canada.”
“Right?” he says, horrified. “It gets worse. Some say they’ve had multiple family members die there due to ineptitude of the staff, and they wouldn’t even risk taking an animal there. I also see reviews complaining that the emergency room smells like pee.”
“Well,” I say chewing on my lip, and pulling over to the side of the road. “You know what? I’ve lived almost 28 years without meeting my biological parents. There’s no reason we have to do this today.”
“Scar,” he admonishes. “We came all this way, and we’re going to Broke Hell—er, Brookdale Hospital. If your father is in there, and if we are to trust the Google reviews, then he’s probably going to die soon, anyway, so you should try to see him before that.”
“Hey,” I say, glancing around at the rather lovely neighborhood where I have pulled over. “I have an idea. Why don’t we do some shopping? You know how I said I wasn’t hungry—well, I changed my mind. I could eat. What’s good around here? Le Cirque? Masa? Look up some reviews for those, and make an evening reservation. That will give me time to get a dress, and some shoes, a shower and some makeup. Then I want to have the finest feast this city has to offer, and a whole lot of wine.”
“Scar…”
“Did you hear that I’m rich now?” I put the car in park, and reach into my purse and pull out a golden credit card. “My husband died and left me millions. It’s about time I started acting like it. I also want a suite at the Ritz Carlton, or the Four Seasons. I’ll let you decide where you’d rather make love to me.”
“Scarlett—”
“No,” I interrupt. “You said you love this city, so let’s enjoy ourselves here. Let’s get the best view possible, of all that iconic architecture, from the most glamorous hotel suite. Let’s open up a bottle of champagne and talk about our future.” I remove the seatbelt from my side and climb across the console to sit on his lap, snuggling against the warmth of his body. “I can see that look in your eye, Cole Hunter. I know that you’re not going to let being dead stop you from making your mark on the world. This wasn’t retirement—it was a vacation. And the vacation’s almost over, so let’s enjoy this last little bit of freedom before we invariably have to get back to work. And I’ll help you however I can, when that day comes. I just want to be with you, and be happy.”
He seems a little surprised by my sudden weight in his lap, and slides his hands over my hips, cupping them gently. He sticks his thumbs into my belt loops, and it almost seems like he’s considering tugging my jeans down right here on the side of the road. Which was exactly my intention.
“While all of that sounds great, Scar, I really think we should visit your father first. I understand your apprehension, but we’ll have a better time in this city if we get the most unpleasant tasks out of the way first. Otherwise, we’ll be dreading it the whole time.”
“We don’t have to dread it if we just decide not to do it,” I tell him moving my bottom against him suggestively. “We have way better things to do with our time, don’t you think?”
He groans. “Stop it, Scar. I know all your tricks, and you can’t distract me. We need to go see your father first.”
“This wasn’t even an option until a few weeks, or months ago. I was fully prepared to go to my grave never knowing who my parents are, and I would have hated them just as much without ever seeing their faces.”
“Yes, but he could die,” Cole tells me. “You might never have another opportunity. Someday, you could regret this. In five, ten, or twenty years, you might look back and wonder. You won’t remember the amazing dinner, no matter how much we spend. You won’t remember our amazing night, no matter what I do to you. You’ll remember the day you could have met your father, but chickened out. If we don’t do this, we’ll both be worrying. We’ll be in the Ritz Carlton staring up at the ceiling and feeling terrible. Don’t let the uncertainty eat us alive.”
“Cole, they didn’t want to meet me when I was born. Why should I bother?”
“Because you’ve spent your whole life wondering, love. When you find the answers to your questions, you’ll release all the power it has over you. Money can buy us almost anything. Hotel suites all over the world, incredible dinners in Dubai. Do you want a castle? We could probably afford a decent sized palace somewhere. And if not, I can definitely afford to build one. But even if we do all that, it won’t give you this. It won’t give you the ability to see your father’s face, for the first and maybe the last time.”
“But it’s in a hospital,” I nearly whine. “Those reviews you read were scary. And I already spent time in the psych ward—that clean, Canadian, bedbug-free psych ward. It was pointless, and it made me feel awful. At least when I was with Benjamin, I knew what to do and how to survive. It was almost normal for me. But now, I don’t know what to do with myself. It almost doesn’t matter that I escaped, because he’s already won, you know? I’m already a mess, Cole. I just can’t handle any more hospitals. Please don’t make me go back. I just want to be with you.”
As I say this, I am turning around in his lap and moving to straddle him, grinding my body against his while pressing kisses against his lips and grasping the back of the headrest for leverage. He puts his hands on my thighs to hold me still and keep me from moving. He then peels my body away from his and holds me slightly away from him, with a few inches of incredibly cold air between us.
“Scarlett,” he says gruffly. “Have I ever told you that you are a little bit addicted to sex?”
This deflates me. “Yes. A few times.”
“We are not taking you to the hospital, for your issues. We are only going to see your father,” he assures me.
“It doesn’t matter. They can smell the sickness on me. A crazy woman going into a hospital—isn’t that like a prostitute going into church? Or a murderer going into a courthouse? I think I’ll immediately catch on fire, or something.”
He sighs deeply, gently squeezing my thighs. “Okay, I need to be honest about something. The reason I’m encouraging you to do this.” He shifts my leg slightly so he can withdraw his cell phone from his pocket. “I would never have come here with you if I didn’t think it was important for you. I have this list on my phone…”
“List?”
“Yeah. Snow,” he mumbles, as he scrolls through his phone.
I flinch when he says my name. Has he figured out who I am? Is it because I climbed on top of him and I was acting too sexual? I guess I could admit to being Snow briefly, and then pretend to let Serena take over again…
“Snow gave me a list,” he finishes as he finds it. “I wrote it down on my phone. She can be pretty wise sometimes.”
“You think Snow is wise?” I ask softly.
“Definitely. She always gives me great suggestions. She said she spends all day watching your life from a distance, like it’s a movie, so she has plenty of time to analyze what would be best for you. We have already done some of the things on this list… but not the first one.”
He places his phone in my hands.
#1. Meet biological family
#2. Kill Benjamin Powell
#3. Justice for Annabelle
#4. Work on our intimacy
#5. Hacking is life
#6. Female friendship
#7. Therapy?
“Benjamin’s gone,” Cole says, “and I know it’s going to take a while for that to sink in. But we can still work on the other tasks on the list.”
I look into his face with wonderment. “You don’t think Snow is just a violent psycho killer? You actually value her advice?”
“Of course,” he responds. “Don’t you?”
I feel warmth spreading through my chest, and I look down in embarrassment. I climb back into the driver’s seat, suddenly flustered, and give his phone back to him.
“I did try to meet my biological family when I went to Michigan,” I say. “It didn’t go so well.”
“Stop making excuses. This man, Jim Larsen, is a thirty-minute drive away. We need to try again. And I’m here with you, now, so it should be easier. No matter how badly it goes, we can get through it together.”
“Fine,” I mumble, putting the car in drive. “You’re so annoying, and you ruin all my fun.”
He smiles.
“And if it goes really, really badly,” he offers, “we can always grab that bite at Le Cirque, and that suite at the Ritz, and I’ll make you forget all about it.”
“You better,” I tell him, pointing at my head. “If you make a mess up here, I’m not cleaning it up.”
Chapter Four
“You’re his daughter?” the receptionist asks, scanning through her computer.
“I guess so. His biological daughter. I didn’t grow up with him. I have a DNA test—would you like to see it?”
“No, that’s okay,” she says. “No one has come to visit him. Not his wife, not his son. No friends. He’s not in good shape, so it could be good to have a visit from someone.”
“Can my husband come in with me?” I ask her, turning to look at Cole.
She hesitates. “Let’s just ask the doctor.”
We wait for a minute or so, before a doctor comes around the corner.
“Dr. Miller, this is Sophie Shields and her husband. Daughter of Jim Larson in room 211.”
“Oh, okay,” the doctor says, taking a paper from the nurse. “You two might want to sit down to talk about his condition.”
“I don’t need to sit,” I tell the doctor.
“Okay, well,” he says, glancing at me and then the charts. “When we brought him in and ran some tests, we discovered a spot on his liver. We ran further tests, and saw that it was also in his lungs and his bones—it had spread from the prostate. We could do chemo, but it feels like there is very little point. He only has a few weeks, or months, and we are mainly trying to give him pain medication to keep him comfortable in his last few days.”
I narrow my eyes at the doctor, who is rambling in a monotonous voice, like he’s discussing the specials on the menu. “Prostate cancer?” I ask for clarification.
“Yes, sorry. Stage IV. He’s right down that hallway if you want to visit him, but he’s on a lot of morphine and he may not recognize you.” The doctor pauses. “He’s not a very pleasant person, is he, your father? A lot of the nurses have been complaining about his lewd behavior.”
“No, I don’t think he is very pleasant,” I say quietly, looking down the hallway.
“I’m sorry there isn’t more we can do,” the doctor says, before grabbing another piece of paper and disappearing.
Chewing on my lip, I turn to look at Cole. He takes my hand.
“Come on, Sophie,” he says, in case anyone is listening. I let him lead me toward the room, and we stand outside the open door awkwardly gazing in at the people on the beds inside. The hospital is cramped and overcrowded, and it seems like every single patient is jammed in like sardines with other sick people. I scan the room, and notice that all the men lying in the beds happen to be black or Hispanic, except for one. If not for this indicator, I would have absolutely no clue as to which one was my father.
But my eyes fall upon the only white man. I take in his condition. He has a pissed off look on his face, like it’s permanently stuck that way. He is hooked up to a ton of tubes and wires, and he looks frail and emaciated.
“This is going to suck,” I grumble to Cole, and he nods with understanding.
Stepping forward, I feel nausea churning up my stomach. The man in the bed is a complete stranger, and I feel absolutely nothing. I can’t even bring myself to care that he is dying of cancer.
I wonder why I’m here. Why did I drive for so many hours?
What did I expect to learn?
Serena, I say inwardly, haltingly. Can you come out now? You have to meet your father. I don’t think I’m the one who’s supposed to do this.
There is no answer. I close my eyes, wondering where she is. I guess it’s been a little fun, having complete control of the body for a few days, waking up in Cole’s arms instead of just falling asleep in them. But it has also been difficult, trying to pretend to be Serena while she is completely checked out. I am usually only around for the heavy stuff, but I’ve had to handle all the stuff.
Brushing my own teeth even feels weird. I knew that things wouldn’t be the same after Serena and I communicated so much while we were being tortured by Benjamin—and especially after learning about Joy. I hoped that I might be able to be present more, in this body. In control more. But I didn’t know that I would have to be present all the time, and that I wouldn’t be able to reach her.
I wasn’t quite prepared for the loneliness of being stuck in my own skin. Or the responsibility.
“Uh,” I say, moving closer to the man. “Hello?”
He squints at me curiously through his opiate daze.
I already know that he is a bad person, and I can see this clearly in his facial expression. I study his features, which look nothing like my own, and I realize that I am searching for myself in his face. I am trying to use this experience to figure out just who I am—because it’s been a little confusing lately.
The man scoffs as he looks at me. “So you’re the hot nurse? Come to give me a sponge bath?”
My eyebrows lift. Okay, I guess it’s for the best that Serena isn’t around to see this. That she doesn’t want to see this. I notice that I am rolling up my sleeves, in an automatic sort of preparation for a fight, but I try to stop myself.
That is not the appropriate response.
Why would I try to fight a man who is dying of cancer?
I take a deep breath. I try to push my anger aside. “Jim Larson?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“My name is Sophie,” I tell him calmly.
“Yeah? Sponge bath Sophie?” he says with a snicker.
I turn to look at Cole, who is standing in the doorway behind me with a strange expression on his face. I frown at him, and he gives me a helpless shrug. Lifting a hand to my head, I point at my skull to remind him that it’s his responsibility to clean up the mess if this goes badly, and he nods.
Turning back to the bed, I step forward, looking at the man squarely in the face. “The reason I’m here is that your son, Liam, recently did a DNA test. Well, his fiancé, Helen did it to surprise him.”
“Helen,” he sneers, spitting the word. Like, he actually spits.
I have to take a step back to avoid being covered in his possibly venomous saliva.
“That snobby, little, rich-bitch whore!” he blurts out. “What does she want?”
I look around the room, at the other sick men in their hospital beds, feeling embarrassed. “Nothing, it’s just that Liam’s DNA was a match for—”
“Liam is a faggot,” the man says, leaning forward. His sneer becomes even more grotesque, and I have to blink, because I’m starting to see Benjamin appear in the creases of his fore
head, in the lines beside his mouth and eyes.
“But you’re a sexy little snack,” he says, gazing up and down at my body exactly like the man in the 7 Eleven gas station. Sixty-seven.
I blink rapidly, for my vision is growing fuzzy and distorted. I clear my throat, and step backward, grasping the railing of the stranger’s bed beside him. I grasp the metal tightly, for my hands are shaking with unbridled rage that I really need to take down a few notches, somewhere closer to the realm of bridled rage. Serena, I need you, I inwardly beg, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu at the tables being turned. Serena, please come out and be the normal good girl, and stop me from killing this man. I don’t know how to do this.
“Forget Liam. Forget anything that useless fucking faggot told you,” Jim Larson says, leaning forward, gesturing with his hands, and tugging slightly on the wires connected to them. “Just try to be a useful little slut, and get me my sponge bath.”
Don’t kill him, don’t kill him, don’t kill him. Taking another step away from the man, I start to chant these words very quickly and quietly to myself, underneath my breath. “Don’tkillhimdon’tkillhimdon’tkillhim. Don’tkillhimdon’tkillhimdon’tkillhim. Don’tkillhimdon’tkillhimdon’tkillhim.” The words have a strange kind of rhythm, like a rap song, or maybe techno. This should be my anthem.
“Are you getting the sponge?” he asks, pointing at his crotch. “I would really like it if you focused on my groin area. I have a really dirty dick, and you need to scrub it vigorously.”
I can’t control myself. I am moving toward him with complete tunnel vision, fury totally clouding my senses. I reach for the tubes that are connected to his arm, the IV drip and whatever else, and I rip them out of his body, I am about to use them to strangle him, and I am fairly certain he will be dead within seconds, so that I can go shopping for a nice dress to wear to dinner at Le Cirque.
But before I can wrap anything around his neck, Cole is at my side, clamping his arms around me, restraining me. He is whispering soft words in my ear to soothe me, and calm the beast.