'It had taken my father years to find me. he even put me in a glorified orphanage to hide me from her. my mother let people hurt me. I was worth nothing to her, but yet she wouldn't let me go.'
"Marcus, lad! Are you awake?" Jayden Lorri's voice was followed by a knock on the wooden door that separated my closet-like room from the rest of the basement.
"Yeah, I'm sorry." I quickly threw on some clothes; a pair of gray sweat pants and a plain white t-shirt. Everything was relatively clean, so hopefully, I didn't look too homeless.
It took me a moment to notice Becca was asleep by my side, her long blonde hair tossed all over her face. She looked like a Barbie doll who'd been well-loved by an overaggressive toddler. "You know you're the best boyfriend ever." She reached out her naked arm as if trying to coax me back to bed.
I gripped her hand. "If you ransack the house, do it in a way that will not get you caught."
Becca sat up, pulling the blankets over her chest. "You mean, us."
"Us?" I repeated, trying to remain calm. The tone of her voice reminded me of my psychotic narcissist of a mother.
Becca turned to me, leaning in close to plant a kiss on my cheek. "If I get caught don't think I'm not taking you down with me."
'Well, fuck you too.' In my mind, I was calling her all kinds of profanity, things I'd never say out loud. "That's fine. You do what you got to do."
Becca ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it into a ponytail. "Have fun at your posh little medical appointment." With her face free of hair, she turned over and went back to sleep.
I sat down on my pillow, placing my hand on my best friend's shoulder. "I know you're not asleep." Being the only two pale blonde white kids at the orphanage, everyone assumed we were siblings. A few even thought we were twins. I guess if that was the case, she'd be the devil to my angel; always thinking with her own survival in mind.
Jay, true to his word, contacted the best neurologists in New York. It took a few tries, but he finally got an appointment with a clinic willing to work with my father's case.
So, I guess, in a way; yes, I would be having fun on my trip down south, to the big city, because my idea of fun was spending time with the people who actually cared. I walked to the main floor and left via the front door, to the sight of Jay helping my father into the rented ambulance/med transport van.
I immediately ran to help. "Sorry, Mr. Lorri, I must have overslept.
"No worries, I've got it." Jay lifted my father's upper body in a partial fireman's carry.
"Thanks." I'd forgotten how strong Jay was. His muscles were for more than just looking good in the ring.
"Just take it slow," Jay said, letting my father place his weight on his shoulder.
My father was dressed in clothes that I assumed belonged to Jay. The collared dress shirt and tan slacks were in better shape than most of the clothes we got from the local church-run charities.
"Hi, Dad." I made sure to reach for his hand as Jay helped him recline on the gurney. "You doing alright?"
He nodded. "I held down some food earlier but Jay says they're going to put in a line for the ride over."
"He's having trouble swallowing," Jay explained, "says the muscle spasms are getting worse. But we've got a set up here to keep him comfortable for the duration of the drive."
"Sounds good," I muttered softly, taking a seat on the floor. There were two benches for the two people who knew what they were doing (Jay and the paramedic). I just needed a place at my father's side. I held his hand, watching the movement of his breathing.
It was difficult for my father to rest his arm. Holding it in place seemed to cause considerable pain. this was made worse when the paramedic attempted to force a line into place, in order to start a saline IV."
For the hour-long road trip into the city, one of the two paramedics kept my father's vitals stable while the other drove on the nearly empty streets. It was early enough in the day to drive without fear of traffic (or the use of sirens.)
Jay and I ate a breakfast of bottled water and energy bars. "We can get some lunch after the meeting," he said apologetically.
"I'm fine. I mean, this is what, a ten-dollar protein bar?" My joke bombed, leading to awkward silence.
The trip was uneventful with my father asleep for the majority of the journey. Although the clinic did not have an emergency room we were greeted at the main drop-off (which included valet parking.)
We were escorted to Dr. Hwang's exam room; a tenth-floor office with heating, AC, and the cleanest smelling air I had ever experienced. "This is way better than the public hospital."
"I'd hope so," Jay chuckled, helping himself to a drink from a nearby mini-fridge. "Want anything; water, fruit juice, Gatorade?
"I'm good." Dr. Morgan Hwang was an accomplished woman originally from Toronto by way of Hong Kong. At least that's what it said on the business cards that adorned her desk. Everything about the office was aesthetic for the sake of aesthetic.
The wait was minimal; in less than five minutes, the door opened, revealing a woman in a sky-blue suit. She shook Jay's hand while I helped my father out of the wheelchair, onto the exam table.
"Hello, Mr. Vladimir Torrence?" she pronounced my father's name with a noticeable hint of confusion. His ethnic background was one of mystery; English, French, Irish, Native American with a possible touch of Hispanic via his Filipino great grandfather.
My father chuckled. "You can call me Val."
She shook his hand, but the look on her face said it all; my father's body should not be as physically weak as he was. "So, the patient does not have any previous medical records?" She asked, looking at Jay for a response.
"Nothing beyond the police report," Jay clarified. "That info was passed along to your scheduling assistant."
Dr. Hwang pulled out an iPad and started to scan through data. "Yes, I can see that."
I simply nodded, gripping my father's hand. It was a little sad; I was his only family but I had no knowledge of the extent of his injuries.
"The event resulted in extensive nerve damage," the woman read out loud.
'My mother stabbed him in the head over and over. (She never did believe in guns; too messy, too traceable, etc.) She didn't stop until he was on the ground, barely alive. If the police had not arrived when they did, she would have forced me into her car and escaped across the Canadian border.'
