Free The Postcard by Tony Abbott Page B

was talking about my grandmother.
    “Your mother?” he said. “Is she here?”
    My mother never called herself Huff. She had kept her maiden name. She was Jennifer Gampel.
    “No,” I answered.
    “Your dad is awake now. For a little while. When will she be coming? Soon? Did you call her? Do you want us to call her?”
    “No, I mean, she’s not in Florida,” I said, suddenly worrying if this was a problem.
    The officer came in then and came over to us, and the doctor said, “We might have to call Family Services.”
    Family Services. It actually sounded like something we could use.
    “No, no,” I said. “I’m just down here with my father from Boston for a little bit. My grandmother just died.”
    “All right, look. Your father’s going to be here for three, four days at least before he can come home. I’d like you to call your mother,” said the doctor. “Come over here.” He was kind of snippy, as if he had more important things to do. He stepped to the emergency counter, where the desk phones were. The officer followed us. It was all going so fast, but the moment I looked at the phone it flashed through my mind what would happen when I called.
    Mom would just pull me out of here. Even if she cared about Dad, she’d be so mad, she’d yank me straight back to Boston, leaving him in the hospital. Then he’d slink back when he got better, and the silences and icy comments would quickly explode into a final argument, and we’d split up completely.
    I hated this place, this stupid heat, the smells, and all these nutty old people and dead bodies, but I couldn’t forget the way Dad was at the funeral. He was sad. He was miserable and sad and had too much to drink and hurt himself. So okay. He wasn’t drunk all the time. And the yelling and breaking stuff? Okay, I was stunned, but I got it. He wasn’t a psycho. He’d never done that kind of thing before. His mother just died.
    Besides, I could probably stay with Mrs. K, right? Of course. She’d want me to. She would be there soon. I was hoping she would be enough for them, the police. She seemed nice, if a little cracked. I could stay with her.
    But Mom? Maybe if things got worse, a lot worse, I’d tell her what happened. But now? No. If she came now, she’d mess it up. She’d push and push then bring me home. And why? So she could leave on another trip?
    No, keep it simple. Say nothing. Talk to Dad first about everything. It was only a few days!
    All this flashed though my mind in a few seconds, and I knew right then that I was about to do something really serious, but that I was going to do it, anyway. “I’ll call her right now,” I said, glancing at my watch. “She’s at work.” I put my hand into my pocket and, making as small movements as I could, I turned off my cell phone.
    Why was I doing this? They’d know, right? They’d know.
    The nurse at the desk smiled and slid a phone toward me as she handed me back my dad’s wallet and a plastic bag of his stuff. “Sure. Dial nine, then the area code. Here.” She pressed a button on the phone.
    The doctor and the officer were looking at me, talking, and doing a lot of head wagging. I tapped in the number slowly then turned away. The phone rang on the other end.
    “Uh . . . hi,” I said.
    “Dude! Is it raining yet?”
    “Look, Hector, I’m in the ER with my dad,” I said quietly. “He fell off a ladder.”
    “What the heck?”
    “I know, but everything’s okay for now. And he’ll be out of here before you know it. Look, they think I’m calling my mom, but I can’t do that yet. But don’t tell anybody. Not your mom. And definitely not my mom.”
    “How about nobody’s mom?” he asked.
    “Perfect.”
    “Heck, dude, the ER. I hope he’s okay. But look, especially be careful to make no eye contact there. I mean it. The patients are, like, halfway across.”
    “I know, but it’s okay for now. I gotta go.”
    Mrs. Keefe was standing in the waiting area when I got off the phone,