Breathe With Me(82)

Blah, blah, blah.

I’m only thirteen, for gosh sakes. It’s not like I’m going to college next year. Maybe I won’t go to college at all. Maybe I’ll just be a dancer. I’ll be a dancer and fall in love with a handsome musician and he’ll write me love songs and tell me how pretty I am.

Daddy tells me I’m pretty, but he’s my daddy. He’s supposed to say that.

Happy with my decision to marry a musician, I execute a perfect pirouette down the empty hallway on my way to the office. When I go inside, I’m surprised to see my mom and the counselor, Mr. Pritchett, waiting for me.

“Mom?” Her eyes are red and blotchy. Mine get the same way when I’ve been crying for a long time. “Mommy?”

“Oh, baby girl.” She yanks me into her arms and smothers me against her breasts, holding onto me so tight I can barely breathe, and cries hard. She’s shaking and sobbing against me.

Why is she crying? She only ever cries when she watches sad movies or when Grandma died. I start to cry too because she’s scaring me.

“Come on, Addie,” Mr. Pritchett says, pulling us toward his office. “Let’s sit down for a minute.”

“The police officer is waiting outside to take us back,” she sobs.

Police officer?

“Am I going to jail?” I cry.

“No, baby, no. Of course not.” Mom sniffs and wipes her cheeks dry, then pushes my hair back over my shoulders. Her lips are trembling. “Sweetie, there was a car accident today. Daddy’s at the hospital now, but we have to get back as soon as possible because they don’t think…” She can’t finish the sentence.

“They don’t think what?”

“You need to go see your dad, Meredith,” Mr. Pritchett says quietly.

“Where is Tiff? Is she at the hospital too?”

Another sob escapes Mom’s lips, but she firms her chin and swallows hard. “No, honey. Tiff isn’t at the h-h-hospital.”

“Where is she?” I whisper.

Mom shakes her head, takes my hand in hers and kisses it. “She didn’t make it, baby.”

I wrinkle my forehead in confusion. “Didn’t make what?”

“Tiffany was killed in the accident, Meredith,” Mr. Pritchett says. His eyes are full of tears too.

“What?” I pull away from Mom, yank my hand out of hers and bump into a chair. “What?”

“Come on,” Mom says. “We have to get back now.”

“I don’t understand.” I can’t stop crying now. My whole body feels hot, like it does when you stand in the bathroom with the shower running hot on a summer day. I can’t breathe. “I want Tiff! I want Daddy!”

“We’re going to see Daddy right now,” Mom says and pulls me out of the office, through the front doors of the school to the police car out front.

I want to ask why the police are here, but I can’t talk. This can’t be happening. What in the hell is happening?

Mom hugs me hard on the drive to the hospital. The tears have dried up, but I feel numb. This can’t be true. Dad had to take Tiff to her dentist appointment this morning. They’re fine. Maybe he took her out to lunch after the appointment and there’s been a mistake.

The policeman’s radio is loud with a deep, monotone man’s voice listing numbers and ten-fours. When he pulls up at the hospital, he helps Mom and me out of the car. He has nice eyes. Sad eyes. He pats my shoulder and walks next to us into the hospital, up an elevator and down a hallway. It smells like medicine and cleaner and feet. I hate the smell of feet.

Why does the hospital smell like feet?

Mom leads us to a room where a curtain is pulled, blocking the view of the bed. She keeps my hand in hers as we walk inside and as we walk around the curtain, I see my daddy lying in a bed with tubes coming out of his mouth. He has a white and green hospital gown on. His face is all bruised. His hand is scratched up badly and his right arm is wrapped in gauze from his elbow to his fingertips.

“Daddy,” I whisper.

“Go talk to him, baby.” Mom guides me next to him. “You can touch him.”

“He’s hurt.”

She nods quickly, tears spilling from her eyes again. “He is, honey. They’re just keeping him with us until we have a chance…”

My eyes fly to hers. “He’s going to die?”

“He is.”

A doctor joins us. She has crazy red hair and freckles, but she has kind eyes too, like the policeman.

“Your dad was in a very bad car accident, Meredith.”

“He’s breathing,” I point out desperately.

“With the help of this machine, yes he is. But sweetie, when we turn the machine off, he will pass away.”