Mom did diya every morning, and we stood around her while she prayed for us to be safe and protected. We visited the temple on certain holy days and for celebratory events, but otherwise religion played a very small role in our lives. Maybe Mom had a hard time believing in a God who would allow us to live the life we had.
“Then y’all going to spend the rest of eternity in hell,” the woman answered with a rare surety.
On the road again, I wondered aloud if there really was a hell.
“No,” Dad answered with complete confidence. “There’s no such thing.”
With hours on the road to reflect, I thought about his quick answer and could only come to one conclusion: he dared not believe in a hell, otherwise he had to know he was destined for it. But if I didn’t do as they said, if I didn’t accept this savior as mine, maybe I was headed for the same place. I knew the answer before it came to me—if my burning in hell meant my father would spend the rest of his soul’s life swallowed by fire, then I was sure it was worth it.
It is David who pages me to tell me the news. Every day at work I slip on a little pager in case of an emergency. It’s standard issue for all employees. I wanted to laugh when they gave it to me but held back. As if there would be a photography emergency. I was surprised when I started to get calls from nurses a few weeks in. Pediatric patients asked for me, wanted to take pictures, took delight in their creations. Though I was scheduled to leave work at four, I often found myself staying past dinner to meet all the requests of the day.
When I receive David’s page, I assume he has a patient he wants me to work with. He seems to know the needs of the children outweigh those of his adult patients, so he rarely contacts me. Every time he does, I feel a jolt when his name shows up on the little screen. I always ignore the sensation, stamping out any feelings to keep our relationship completely professional. I use the nurses’ desk phone to call him.
“You caught me,” I tease, as soon as he picks up. “I was going to sneak out early today.”
We have started to meet up with one another two to three times a week in the early evening. With few people left on the floors past dinner time, we grab a bite to eat together. Usually in the cafeteria, or if it is already closed, we munch on whatever we can find in the vending machines. We keep our conversations light, away from anything too serious. He never pushes me or asks for more than I am willing to say. It guarantees the impromptu meetings can continue. I won’t be forced to run as long as he gives me nothing to run from.
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” David’s voice holds an edge I haven’t heard before. “Are you busy?”
“What’s going on?” I start to have trouble breathing. It’s been two days since I last visited my father. When I had a break between patients, I would beg myself not to go see him; there was no point. No words were strong enough. Even if I just sneaked briefly into his room, it calmed my nerves to see him still lying there—almost dead. “Is it Dad?” If he has awoken, then I will leave tonight. I won’t see him. I will stop by Trisha’s—say good-bye. She will understand. She will have to. I have my escape plan mapped out. My mind whirling, I barely hear David’s next words.
“It’s not your father. It’s your niece.”
I run when David finishes talking. He doesn’t have details. Only that Gia is in the Trauma Unit and has asked for me. The sound of my heels hitting the sterile floors thunders in my ear. I wait impatiently for the elevator to arrive. When it refuses to, I run into the stairwell and down the flights to her floor. My badge is enough to get me past the security desk protecting the identity of the patients inside. Uniformed officers are in and out, a sea of blue among the walls of white.
“My niece, Gia, was just admitted . . .” I demand at the nurses’ station. When my name is called, I turn around to see Marin as I have never imagined her. Her arms are crossed over her rail-thin body, her body tense. Instead of her normal suits, she has on jeans and a jacket. Circles underneath her eyes show hours of sleep lost. I rush toward her. “What happened?”