Page 83 of Finding Yesterday
I glance at Emma who’s already up from the table. “Dylan, if you don’t come now, you’re not getting dessert.” Without waiting for him, she heads toward the sink with his spill-proof cup.
Dylan lands in his seat at warp speed.
Daddy eats in silence, and I’m not sure what’s up with him. I don’t know if Emma told him what happened or not, but he doesn’t seem to be in a chatty mood either.
Dylan is a living jumping bean in his chair, and when he takes a big bite of the lasagna, the entire thing slops down the front of his shirt. “Dammit,” he says.
My eyes bulge, and I’m glad Emma is still in the kitchen. “Don’t use that word, baby. But it’s okay.” I jump up and grab some napkins, ready to wipe down his front.
When Emma returns, she takes one look and says, “We need the wet wipes.”
“That was a good one, buddy!” Nate chuckles.
“Let me get the wipes, Em,” I say, jumping up. “You sit and eat.”
“Thanks.” She blows out a breath and sits.
I’m in the living room digging through Emma’s gigantic bag when I hear her scream. I stop what I’m doing, trying to make sure she’s not messing around.
“Daddy!” Emma cries out, and I can tell by the shriek in her voice that she’s serious.
I drop the wipes and dart through the house, flying through the kitchen when I hear Nate say, “Claire, get out here now!”
My vision goes blurry as I bust out the back patio doors, horrified of what I’m going to see.
“He’s choking!” Emma cries out as soon as I’m there.
Daddy’s face is past red and almost purple, and he’s got both hands on his throat. The look in his eyes is one of sheer terror.
One I never wish to see from him again.
“I’ve got you, Daddy, hold on!” I call out, rushing over. I wrap my arms around the chair and his torso, letting my training take over. I can’t think about the steps because I can’t think at all.
And now I know why they make you go through training every year to keep up your CPR certification. It’s because you have to be able to do it without thinking. In the moment, you can’t think, and you must act on impulse. There just isn’t another way.
I drive my fist into his belly, one time. Two times. Three.
“It’s not working,” Emma utters, her voice cracking through sobs. She backs into the wall and slides down, crumbling to the floor.
“It will.” My voice calm, I drive my fist in his belly again.
Daddy lets out a loud cough, then a piece of lasagna flies across the deck. He continues to gasp for air, and I hold him.
“You’re gonna be okay, Daddy. Keep breathing.” I rub his back.
Dylan breaks into hysterics, so I dart over and sweep him up. Still dazed, Emma sits on the porch.
Daddy’s wheezing, so I look at Nate. My brother, always so casual and tough, is standing frozen in the corner of the deck.
“Nate,” I say, but he doesn’t respond. I try again. “Nate, call 911!”
Nate nods slowly, getting his phone.
“I’m all right,” Daddy says, his voice hoarse.
“That’s good, Daddy, but you’re wheezing. We have to get you checked out, okay? We just need to make sure you don’t have any food in your airway.” I don’t want to scare the family more, but food traveling down Daddy’s airways could kill him, and wheezing is a symptom of that.
Daddy nods, and that’s when I realize how scared he is. He never cooperates this easily, especially when it comes to hospitals or doctors.
