Page 113 of All the Beautiful Things
He squeezed my thigh as the nurse came on the phone, and I repeated the information I gave to the original operator.
“Joshua Huntington,” she said. After asking for his date of birth, something I had to think on before she was satisfied I was who I said I was, she finally said, “He’s been moved from the surgical floor to a regular room for recovery.”
“Surgery?” I asked before I could think that as his daughter, this was something I should know. “Is he… okay?”
“I apologize, all I can tell you is he’s in his room. Would you like me to connect you?”
Did I? Would he answer? Would the phone ring relentlessly or would anyone be there to answer?
“Please,” I said. My throat felt like it’d been rubbed raw with sandpaper and then dipped in acid. “Thank you.”
“Very well. Hold please.”
It was seconds later that felt like hours when the phone rang once. Twice. I didn’t even realize I’d reached down and clasped Hudson’s hand in mine until his fingers flexed.
“Sorry,” I muttered as the phone rang again.
He turned his hand over and held my hand. Warm palm to my clammy one, he squeezed me tightly and kissed my temple right as a voice I hadn’t heard in over seven years came through the phone.
“Hello? Joshua’s room.”
“Mom,” I gasped. The word fell from my lips like a song, a plead and prayer all tangled up in one and there was silence, so much silence from the other end I was sure she’d hung up on me.
“Lilliana?”
Her voice was as I remembered. Cold and quiet, timid, but she wasn’t slurring, which meant she was sober. Probably couldn’t sneak much wine or vodka into a hospital though.
“It’s me, Mom.” My voice cracked. Please don’t hang up. Please tell me you’re sorry. I thought of all the pleading done in my letters they’d returned and the lack of contact they’d given me.
Why was I begging?
I should be over this.
Another heavy pause.
“Why are you calling?” she finally asked, and her voice had quieted to a whisper. I could imagine her in a hospital room with my dad, fingers at her pearl necklace, fiddling with it and giving her back to my dad while she spoke to me.
Terrified she’d get in trouble.
“I heard… I heard Dad was in the hospital. I thought…”
Her voice turned brittle, jolting me where I sat in the bed. “What? That he’d want to talk to you? You killed his son.”
“Mom—” And my damn fucking tears that should have been dried up hours ago fell.
“He doesn’t want anything to do with you,” she said.
“Will he be okay?”
“He will live. And you should never call us again.”
I hated her for it.
I hated both of them. I hated every single tear I’d shed for them. Why did I even put myself through this torture?
This was better closure than a letter even if ten thousand daggers to my chest would have been less painful.
She hung up, hurried and rushed, and I could imagine my dad waking from sleep and demanding to know who was on the phone.
