30
Conor drove me to Tatum Hills Medical Center and parked in the visitor lot for the Emergency Room. My gown was soaked in my father’s blood now clotting into the lace.
“I know you can’t go in,” I said, recalling Conor’s serious phobia of hospitals.
“I… I can.” His face looked as pale as my father’s. “I’ve been working with a therapist your da recommended.”
I stared blankly at the entrance to the ER. “I’d understand if you didn’t. After what happened to your sister Bernie…”
“Bernie’s gone. I’ve made my peace with it. But your da’s alive.”
“We hope.”
“He’s a tough old Cajun. He’ll make it. And I’ll stick with ya, love, no matter how b****y bad my anxiety gets.” He gripped my hand. “You’re my wife, Jinxie. What kinda husband would I be if I couldn’t stand by ya through this shite?”
