Hit the Spot

I pinched my eyes shut and shook my head. Oh, my God. This was beyond frustrating.

“Mom,” I snapped, looking to her again and waiting to continue until after her head turned and her eyes pried off the numbers flashing on the screen. “You said on the phone you were in the ambulance and they were telling you Daddy was having a heart attack.”

“Well, that’s what the paramedics thought,” she replied, brow tightly furrowed. “He was showing symptoms of it. Chest pain. Shortness of breath. And he was sweating like crazy. They assumed that’s what he was having.”

“I was sweating ’cause it was so goddamn hot in that attic and I was working up there,” Dad offered up, tugging at the collar of his hospital gown. “Christ. Get me my shirt. If I’m gonna be waiting around, I’m doing it in my own clothes.”

“You are staying in that gown until they release you.” Mom slapped his hands away, then pushed against his chest when he tried getting up. “And if you were sweating ’cause of the attic, how come you were still sweating in the ambulance? It wasn’t warm in there.”

Dad waved her off with a dismissive hand, looking away as he revealed, “They were poking at me and you were saying the Lord’s prayer. I thought I was dying.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you were showing symptoms? Is that what you’re saying?”

Mom was leaning over the bed with her hands on her hips now. And I knew if I didn’t step in soon, she’d probably throw my father into heart attack symptoms once again.

“So the paramedics thought it was a heart attack, but the doctor doesn’t think that’s what it was?” I asked, interjecting.

Holding her scowl, Mom straightened up, stared at my father for another breath, then turned to look at me. “They’re waiting on some test results, but it could still be serious even if it wasn’t technically a heart attack,” she replied.

I breathed deep. Stay calm, I told myself. If you freak, she’ll freak, then freak out on him, and that can’t possibly be good for his heart, attacked or not.

“Okay.” I nodded, reaching up and gathering my hair over one shoulder. I twisted the strands into a bundle so my hands stayed busy and my mother couldn’t see how badly they were shaking. “Well, we just need to stay positive and wait. That’s all we can do,” I told them both.

Mom nodded once, agreeing with me, then reached for my father’s hand and squeezed it on the bed. “That’s all we can do,” she repeated, softly smiling at him.

Keeping his hand, she reached back and pulled the chair closer to his side, sat it in, passed the smile she was wearing my way, then lost it when her eyes slid over my shoulder and focused behind me.

She stood out of her chair, lifting my father’s hand off the bed and gripping on to it with both of hers. I spun around then and saw who my mother was reacting to. The muscles in my legs tightened and my knees locked.

My God …

It was Jamie, only older by a handful of years, I was guessing. And instead of board shorts, the man wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. Instead of overgrown wave-tousled hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow, he was clean-cut, close-shaven, and more GQ than model gone rogue.

He was Jamie G-rated. Smoke-free lungs, I was sure, and most likely had no idea how to pick a lock.

I preferred my boys dirtied up and restraining order persistent. This man probably took no for an answer. Jamie took it as a challenge.

Still, wow, the genes in this family were unreal. The McCade parents should’ve kept producing. They couldn’t go wrong.

Dr. McCade stepped forward and glanced up from the paper in his hand. “All right, so …” He paused, noticed me in the room, and lifted his brows in question.

I studied his face.

He had the same high cheekbones as Jamie. Same thin nose and ocean blue eyes. Same lean-muscled physique and summer-touched skin. Beautiful.

I guessed he worked out of this hospital? Durham was only twenty-five minutes away. That wasn’t too long of a commute.

Damn. I wished Jamie’s commute was only twenty-five minutes from here. I was dying to talk to him. And I would, as soon as I knew for sure what was going on. I didn’t want to worry him if this was nothing. I needed answers first.

“This is our daughter, Tori,” Mom shared, reading the question in Dr. McCade’s eyes. “She just got here.”

“Hi,” I said, hands still twisting my hair into a tight coil.

He offered a friendly smile and a genuine, “It’s nice to meet you, Tori. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I smiled back, giving that to him while internally hiding my amusement.

Full sentences. Polite. Total G-rated Jamie.

“Did you get the results back?” Mom asked. Her voice was small and stressed.

Dr. McCade nodded, looking toward the bed. “To the EKG, yes, and I’m confident in stating I do not believe this was a heart attack, Mr. Rivera.”

“Oh, thank God!” Mom cried, bending down and pressing repeated kisses to my father’s hand.

I let out an anxious breath.

“However,” he went on, voice somber and drawing my head back around. “From the results here and the preliminary blood work, I do believe you are showing signs of heart disease.”

The air in the room went colder. My stomach knotted up and my hands tightened around my hair. I heard the change in my mother’s cries, her weeps of joy becoming distressful and doom-filled.