Silence.
“Smithie says Lottie’l be driving a Porsche in a week,” I told him.
More silence.
I kept going; it was like I couldn’t stop, even if I tried.
“Smithie says, if I make it a sister act, he’l put me in his wil .”
Now, there was Spanish.
This made me smile.
“What’s happening with you?” I asked, starting to feel funny and the smile died away.
This was a strange conversation because it was a normal conversation. This was the kind of conversation normal, average, everyday g-words had with their b-words, or worse, w-words had with their m-words.
He answered, but I didn’t hear him. I noticed a car braking funny in the middle of Broadway, directly across from where I was standing. The car didn’t come to a complete stop, but the backdoor opened and a body was flung out.
A body that looked like my Dad’s body.
“Dad,” I whispered into the phone and watched as Dad tumbled, limbs jiggling uselessly, not trying to break or control his rol .
“Dad!” I shouted as I watched him rol , the door to the car closed and the car sped away.
I had the cel away from my face, flipped it shut and shoved it into my jeans, running outside.
“Get her!” Duke shouted but I was gone, out the door, running into traffic, straight to my Dad’s prone body.
Cars swerved and honked and I went down on my knees in the middle of the left lane, next to Dad’s body.
He was on his side and there was blood everywhere. On his clothes, in his hair, the blood was wet and dry, new and old.
I gently rol ed him over and what I saw caused a wave of nausea to rol up my throat. Frantical y, I swal owed it down.
His face was beaten to a bloody pulp. He was barely recognizable. Eyes swol en shut. Lips cracked and ripped.
Nose smushed flat. The flesh of his cheeks cut and mangled. Most of his clothes were ripped and cut and mangled. Most of his clothes were ripped and cut and blood was flowing freely from the holes.
I bent low, putting my cheek to his and listened for his breathing while my hand went to feel for his pulse.
I heard Bobby issuing orders, “Cal 911.” and “Control traffic.”
I felt Dad’s pulse, I didn’t know anything about pulses but I figured him having one at al meant God had final y come through in a clinch.
I sat up, pul ed off my cardigan and bunched it under his head.
“Jet,” Bobby said, hand on my shoulder.
I pul ed my shoulder from his hand and careful y ripped Dad’s shirt down his chest, seeing what looked like knife wounds and bul et wounds, old and new, al over, blood seeping from them, some maroon, some red, too much of it. No one could lose that much blood and survive.
“Jet,” Bobby said again, crouching down beside me.
I heard sirens and sat down, pul ing Dad’s dead weight up to a sitting position using al my strength, pressing his torso to me, wrapping my arms tight around him and putting my mouth to his ear.
Not knowing what else to do, I started to sing softly Paul McCartney’s “Jet”.
“Get her outta there,” Duke growled from somewhere close.
I skipped a bit of the song and went to the good part about wanting Jet to always love him.
It was then, Dad was gently pul ed away from my arms by a uniformed officer and I was helped to my feet by another.
a uniformed officer and I was helped to my feet by another.
I was turned and Duke’s arms were there, going round me tight.
We watched as the police worked, then the ambulance was there, then Duke helped me into Bobby’s SUV and Bobby took off behind the ambulance, fol owing close.
He was on his cel , listening to someone, then he said, “It’s bad.”
Yes, he was right, it was bad. It was very, very, very bad.
Bobby angled into an il egal spot outside Denver Health but I was out of the truck before he came to a ful stop. He caught up to me and we entered the emergency room together.
The receptionist stared at me, her eyes rounding with horror and she began to stand.
“She’s unhurt, it’s someone else’s blood,” Bobby took over, talking to reception.
I pul ed my cel out of my back pocket and scrol ed down to Daisy and hit the button.
Daisy answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Sugar. We just picked up Ada and we’re headin’—”
I interrupted her.
“Fifteen minutes ago, Dad was flung out of a moving car on Broadway. He’s been beaten, stabbed and shot. I’m at Denver Health. Can you find a good way to break it to Mom and Lottie and get over here?”
Silence for a beat, then, quietly, “You betcha, darlin’.” I flipped the phone shut and saw Bobby take a piece of fabric from the receptionist, then he grabbed my arm and pul ed me in the direction where she was pointing. We went into the emergency ward, he opened a door and we went into an empty room with an exam table, a bunch of medical stuff and a sink. He took me to the sink.
“Shirt off,” he said.