“Your aunt?” She held the phone out.
“Aunt Mo?” He took the phone, covering his other ear to hear.
“Brock? Your daddy’s taken a spill. He’s hit his head, so they’re taking him to the hospital.”
“Which hospital?” he asked, already heading toward the exit, Shalene Fowler trailing along.
“St. Joseph’s Medical Center. I’ve got Cliff bringing me, so you just head straight there,” she said. “He’s breathing, headed where he needs to be, so don’t you drive like a maniac and wind up in ER yourself, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hung up and handed the phone back to Shalene. “Family emergency.”
“I hope everything is okay, Brock.” She patted his arm. “You take care now.”
He jogged to the locker room, grabbed his bag, and ran to his truck. He put the key in the ignition, his phone beeping from the recesses of his gym bag. He pulled it out, fear ticking his pulse up. Missed calls from Aunt Mo. From ten and fifteen minutes ago. Nothing new.
Calm the fuck down. He rolled his head and took a few deep breaths before turning the key in the ignition. Austin highways meant constant construction and traffic. As much as he wanted to avoid I-35, it was still the fastest route. But the fifteen-mile, forty-five-minute drive took every last bit of his patience—and then some.
He parked and ran, cutting across the parking lot and ignoring the shocked stares of people who recognized him. It didn’t help that his neon-green DFLM shirt had his name in bold, reflective, black letters across his back.
He headed straight to the ER. Aunt Mo stood, wringing her hands, staring at the television in the corner of the room.
“Aunt Mo?” He gave her a quick hug. “Any word?”
She shook her head. “They’re still checking him out. Knowing him, he’s being ornery.” But her smile wasn’t steady, and her eyes were full of tears.
He nodded. “Probably fighting them and giving them an earful.” His father was a big man. When he got aggressive, and he had a time or two, it wasn’t easy to subdue or calm him.
She laughed then, pulling a faded blue-plaid handkerchief from the pocket of her sweater. “We’ll just wait awhile.”
“You want to sit?” he asked.
“In those chairs?” Aunt Mo eyed the plastic chairs with concern. “Goodness knows when was the last time they had a good scrubbing. The last thing I need is to leave here with the flu or shingles or some nasty intestinal thing. I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense.”
“I’m fine standing.” He didn’t argue. His father and Aunt Mo were both stubborn people. They liked to be in control. If standing made her feel better, he’d stand with her.
“Mr. Watson? Miss Watson? My name is Jackie.” A nurse in pale green scrubs approached them. “It might be best if we put you in another room.” She glanced around the relatively full waiting room.
That’s when Brock noticed a few cell phones out. A little boy with an ice pack to his cheek waved. Poor kid looked like he’d have a black eye. Brock waved back.
“That would be nice,” Aunt Mo said.
Brock took his aunt’s arm and followed Jackie from the ER waiting room, through some badge-activated doors, and down a short hallway to a small room with a few chairs and a water fountain.
“Do we know what happened?” Aunt Mo asked. “David Watson is my brother.”
“I see.” Jackie nodded. “Well, it looks like he got up at nap time and headed to the kitchen. The floors had just been mopped so he slipped on the floor and hit his head.”
“After a snack most likely.” Aunt Mo’s hand tightened on his arm. “Is he awake? Can we see him?”
“Not yet.” Jackie glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Once the doctor has finished his assessment, he will come see you.” She stood. “I’ll come back as soon as I have an update.” She pulled the door closed behind her.
“You know how fragile his bones are, Brock.” Aunt Mo was shaking her head. “If he breaks something…”
“Whoa. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Brock steered her to one of the chairs. “Dad’s tough. And stubborn.” He draped his arm along the back of Aunt Mo’s seat. “He’s strong, too. Stronger than an ox.” Since Brock could remember, he’d heard that about his father. Stronger than an ox. When his father had played college ball, he’d been known as “Ox” Watson or just “The Ox.” “He’s not giving up without a fight. He’s not done being a pain in the ass yet.”
Aunt Mo stared up at him then, sniffing sharply, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. “He better be. Or I…I…” She broke off, pressing her lips together. “And watch your language, Brock Nathaniel Watson.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hugged her close. She was only a few years younger than his father. She was just as tough, but beneath his arm, she felt small and fragile. When she was all bluster and snap, it was easy to forget that. Selfish or not, he needed them—they were what kept him focused. Eyes closed, he rubbed his hand up and down Aunt Mo’s arm to comfort them both. He was doing his best to swallow down the knot in his throat. He didn’t have any say-so and he knew it but, dammit, he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to his father. Please, Dad, fight.