Our Turn

Until today.

I’ve been lying in this bed in the emergency room of the hospital for hours now, and I can’t tell from the doctor’s expression what’s coming. I doubled over early this morning with pain in my side, thinking it was my appendix, but apparently, I failed anatomy 101 because it’s my liver.

“We’re waiting for the results. Just to be clear here, there are two possibilities I’m leaning toward for your pain. One is there are fat deposits on your liver, and you will need to adjust your diet. This doesn’t sound like much, but they can be acutely and suddenly painful with no prior symptoms.” He gives me a raised eyebrow and a nod. “The other, given the growth on the back of your liver that showed up in the MRI, is obviously more serious. I’m hoping the growth has nothing to do with it, but we are sending that to the radiologist to analyze, along with your blood tests. Now, as I explained, if that growth needs to be removed, it’s not an easy surgery. The liver is very vascular, like a giant blood sponge, and making sure there is enough AB negative on hand will be critical. Then, of course, if the growth is a tumor and not just a cyst, then we will determine if it is malignant.” His voice lowers, and I see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows.

Malignant.

He looks like a dad. Like Mr. Brady but more serious and with gray hair. I bet he has kids. I bet he’s a good father.

Is my father a good father? Does he have other kids?

Beth puts her other hand on top of mine. “We are going to hope for the best like you said, but prepare for the worst. You got in touch with her dad, right?”

I press my cold fingers to my forehead and try to hold back the whimper caught in my throat.

“My father,” I correct trying not to sound too pissy.

Dad sounds too familiar like he’s been around. Been in my life.

The doctor nods at us both, and I feel the curtained walls closing in — the noises from the emergency room filter through the fabric. Beeps and alarms on monitors going off, people moaning and talking about bodily functions I’d rather remain ignorant about drift all around through the curtains.

He puts his hands down in the front pockets of his white lab coat. “Are you comfortable for now? Your pain is tolerable?”

I nod, trying to remember to breathe, thinking the man I’ve been following around for six months is going to be here in a matter of hours and I have to decide if I want to meet him or not.

The doctor makes his retreat, and Beth touches my face. “Are you okay? You’re ghostly white all of a sudden.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just the idea that he’s going to be here in the same building as me.”

“I know. Jesus fuck-n-a.” Beth gives me a soft smile. Her potty mouth is such a contrast to her otherwise controlled and professional manner, but I find it funny because I never swear and I’m the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. “Remember, you don’t have to meet him.”

“I know.” My heart flutters, and I get that funny feeling in my stomach that I get when I think about him. “I can’t believe I’ve been sort of stalking him for six months and haven’t gotten the courage to meet him.”

Beth blows out a deep breath and shrugs. “You can’t write this shit. Holy fucked up Batman.”

She runs her hand down her throat fingering the sterling silver Tiffany choker I admire every time she wears it. Her jet-black hair always immaculate in a banged bob that brushes just at her neckline. Her shoes cost more than I probably make in a month and whenever she drives me around in her Mercedes, I sit up straighter hoping I look like I belong.

But, for all of her success, she treats me no different than I’ve seen her treat her millionaire—maybe even billionaire—clients. In fact, I think she treats me better. Kinder for sure. She’s sweet, but a brutal negotiator and I’ve heard her take after people with the viciousness of a wolverine in a leg trap.

As far as my father goes, I know why I’ve not bolstered the courage just to walk up and introduce myself before.

I‘ve seen him. Gosh, have I seen him.

When my mom got arrested for the sixth time almost a year ago for DUI, the judge brought the hammer down. She’s now a resident of the Middletown Women’s Correctional Facility in Cramer, Oklahoma where we’d lived for the last few years before I came here to Detroit.

Where she said, my father lived.

I don’t know what happened, but when she got sentenced to four to eight years, the judge gave her forty-eight hours to surrender. She finally broke and told me who my dad was — his name and where he lived.