Shatter (Seaside 3)

Jaymeson alternated between cursing and tapping his phone against his leg. “I need to call him.”

“Who?” I turned down the street and sped toward the hospital, praying to God I could concentrate enough on the road and on Jaymeson to not get us into an accident.

“My father. I have to call him.”

The car slowed to a stop at the light. I turned to face him. His eyes welled with unshed tears. “I can’t. I just… I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I hate him. I hate what he’s done to her. She was more of a mom to me than he was a father. He did this.”

The light turned green. A tense silence blanketed over the car. The minute I pulled into the hospital parking lot I turned toward him and held out my hand. “Give me the phone.”

“What? Why?”

“You hate him. I don’t. He could be the freaking President and I’d still tell him he was a grade A ass**le if that made you feel better — you’re right. Maybe I didn’t cause this, but apparently he did. And he needs to know.”

Jaymeson gave a jerky nod and handed me the phone.

“It’s under Bastard,” he mumbled as I scrolled through the contacts.

I smirked at that. We were more alike than he’d care to admit.

I found his number and dialed it. He answered in two rings. “What the hell, Jaymeson, you know not to call me when I’m in production!”

I laughed. “Wow, you really are a bastard.”

“Who the hell is this?”

“God. He says repent or go to hell.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, I just thought you may want to know that your ex-wife is currently in the emergency room. We aren’t sure if she’s going to make it, and her dying wish was for us to order a hit on you, so if you see any sketchy hooded people following you around, well, you know why. Have a good day!”

“Wait!” His voice was raspy on the other end as if he’d just choked on a potato chip and needed water. “April? Accident? What happened? Who the hell are you? Where’s Jaymeson? Is Jaymeson all right? I need him for this movie!”

“Whoa.” I cursed into the phone. “You know what? Nevermind. We’re in Seaside, Oregon, but you may as well go to hell.”

I hung up the phone.

Jaymeson stared at me blankly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“And I thought Angelica was the anti-Christ.”

This earned at least a small smirk from Jaymeson as he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car.

It was an eerie out-of-body experience — to just discover the person that gave birth to you, only to deal with the fear and possibility that she might be taken from you all over again. I wasn’t really sure I knew what I felt. I was angry, sad, confused… I was so many things. It didn’t help that my body felt so freaking numb with each step I took, as if someone had cut open my legs and placed sand inside every tiny crevice until I was paralyzed.

Jaymeson walked to the triage station and asked about his mom.

I waited in the background and looked around. The smell was the same. It still smelled like death — I’d never told anyone about the nightmares I’d had while I’d been here.

I could have sworn I came face to face with the devil in my operating room. Nat’s dad, the surgeon who operated, said it was probably the shock of the accident mixed with the drugs.

I’d nodded my head and shrugged it off because that’s what I did. I shrugged things off and eventually everything was okay.

Clearly I wasn’t over everything. My wobbly legs couldn’t take it anymore. I found a seat and collapsed into it, covering my face with my hands. What was wrong with me? My real mom was in the emergency room and all I could think about was myself. I’d always hated hospitals ever since I was a little kid. I hated sick people — damn, I even hated the smell of bandages.

I lifted my eyes to see the people’s faces. The nurses walking briskly up and down the halls. The doctors, the flowers — the antiseptic.

It felt like my ears were stuffed with cotton as I heard footsteps clicking down the large hall. I looked up and came face to face with Paul, Nat’s dad, and I was transported.

Back to when I was a little kid.

When my dad — the only dad I’d ever known — was dying of cancer.

“Alec, he’s so young, younger than you,” Dad rasped. “You have to make sure he’s taken care of. He’s your brother.”

“I will, Dad. I promise.” Even at such a young age Alec was strong, immovable, forced to grow up way before his time.

Dad coughed. “Son, he isn’t… he’s family, but he’s… he’s adopted. Do you know what that means?”

Alec was silent for a moment and then he said, “Yes, but he’s still my brother.”

“He’s still my son.” Dad sighed loud enough for me to hear the intense struggle it was for him to breathe in and out. “You need to tell him, Alec. When the time is right. When he’s ready to hear it, you need to tell him who she is.”

I peeked around the corner at Alec and my dad.

Tears streamed down his face as Alec took a crumpled piece of paper into his hands and stuffed it into his pocket. “But, Dad… when you’re gone… he’s all I have left. I don’t have anyone.”