22
Tammy
I was halfway back to the city when my mother called. ‘Your dad,’ she said, ‘he’s been hit by a car. We’re going to the hospital.’
‘Tongheng Zhang,’ I said to the man at the front desk of the emergency room. ‘Where is he? I’m his daughter.’
The man typed something into his computer. ‘Not finding anything. Can you spell it?’
‘It’s spelled like it sounds. Tongheng,’ I said, before spitting the letters out.
‘He’s in surgery. You can go to waiting room 3.’
I jogged down the long corridor.
Waiting room 3. It was the one I had been in for my father’s heart attack, but now, it barely looked the same. Instead of scraping against a linoleum floor, my boots dug into the plush carpet, creating an instant imprint. Faux-leather chairs had replaced the stained wool-blend seats that had
