My father had been taken to the ICU, apparently. From what I could decipher he suffered a heart attack or something. Dr. Hwang was speaking perfectly clear, probably using words I could understand, but all I could hear was, 'blah blah blah, fluid in the lungs, blah blah blah cardiac arrest. Something-something, hospice.' My mind broke upon hearing the H-word. "I'm sorry, I have to go."
I stood up and left the room, walking towards the elevator. I didn't want to cry: I wanted to scream. My life was fucked; I wanted to run up a flight of stairs and jump off the roof (the idea seemed as refreshing as a cold drink of water.) Out of the corner of my line of sight, I spotted the familiar symbol of a fire escape. It took me a moment to take a step and, in that time, Jay appeared behind me.
He gripped my arm, turning my body to face him. "Marcus, wait!"
"Wait for what?"
"We can head up to the ICU." He spoke with a sense of compassion. Or maybe that was just the accent (or the hair.) It was hard to be upset around an Irish guy with spiked hair. Jay looked more like a bartender at a club than the father of my emotionally abusive girlfriend.
"I don't know if I can."
"They usually don't allow visitors for ICU patients in the first 24 hours, but you'll at least get to see that your father's still alive."
'Still alive?' I really wish he'd chose a different turn of phrase. I was now the same scared child who slept by his comatose father's side, praying for a miracle that would never happen. I shook my head, desperately trying not to cry. "I want to go home. I mean to your home."
"I figured," Jay said, patting my arm. "You know it's all right; You can call it your home."
I nodded, forcing a grateful smile. I didn't have a home. I would never have a home. "So, my father is unconscious?" I asked. I assumed that was why the ICU was not allowing visitors. I needed to see him, I owed it to my father to be there when he woke up. However, another part of me did not; I was emotionally empty inside and I just wanted to sleep in a real bed.
Jay nodded, gripping my arm. "If there's any change to his condition they'll call right away."
"Ok." That was more than reasonable.
"I called for a Lyft, they should be here by the time we get downstairs."
"Ok," I repeated. None of this was under my control; might as well roll with the punches, at least I'd get a free air-conditioned car ride.
Jay must have sensed my apprehension. He touched my chin, turning my face. "Marcus, I need you to look at me."
I did as he asked, fighting back the tears.
"Leaving your father's side does not make you a monster. He knows you love him, and love will guide him to where he needs to be.
I nodded, forcing myself to breathe. I accepted a hug, allowing Jay to guide me to the elevator.
The drive back was uneventful, at least until we saw the state of Jay's front gate. with the level of property damage, I assumed the police would be called. The driver even offered his own cell phone.
Jay got out, rolling his neck like a fighter about to step into the ring. "Nah, man. It's all good."
It was not all good. The ten-foot-tall gate with decorative interlocking dragons was now laying on the ground, clearly smashed from its frame. I got out of the car, stood up, walking around the damage. I was at a loss for words.
Jay just laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "How much you want to bet she stole one of my bikes?"
"Becca?" I asked. I knew that, in addition to his six cars, he had ten motorcycles ranging from Harley Davidson to Kawasaki. "So, are you going to call the police?"
Jay shrugged. "Nah, I have plenty more." he went straight into the house, powerwalking to the first-floor office. I watched as he opened his safe removing a scratched up metal sewing kit.
"What's that?"
"Just an old gift from my nan." Jay took the box, sat down at his desk and rolled a joint. He licked his fingers to seal the rolling paper (which appeared to be recycled from an old Bible.)
"Aren't you worried about drug testing?"
"For what? I've been retired from active competition for years." Jay lit up and took a long soothing drag, exhaling a smooth stream of smoke. "Acting and modeling gigs practically survive on narcotics."
"So, you're California sober?" I looked around the office. There were books and papers scattered on the floor; clearly, Becca had been looking for the code to the safe.