After arriving home with the pizza, I eat a quick slice then go down to the basement. I need to get away from Dad and Grandma for a little while after such an intense day.
My curiosity is getting the better of me. I know his first name and where he works. He can’t be that hard to find.
I sit down at my computer and swivel the mouse. I Google ‘Adam’ and ‘Tri-County Ambulance.’ The first result is a link to a Facebook page.
Bingo!
Thank goodness for the matchmaking power of the internet. The man of your dreams is within seconds of your fingertips.
This is a major moment. I’ve never cyber-stalked a guy before. This is the point of no return.
With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I click the link.
And there he is—a three-hundred-pound bald dude from San Francisco.
Ewww…
I click back to the search results. There is another Facebook link right under the first.
When at first you don’t succeed…
I click and Adam’s face lights up the screen. His long, shaggy blond hair—in desperate need of a cut but utterly adorable all the same—frames those soulful brown eyes. It is so easy to get lost in those eyes.
I snap myself out of my daydream and scroll down. His full name is Adam O’Malley. He doesn’t give much info in his ‘About’ section—just that he is a student at Blomain Community College and works for Tri-County Ambulance. His list of friends is small at only about forty people. But most importantly, no one is listed under ‘Relationship Status.’
Yes!
And under ‘Family’ there is a brother named Brian living near Philadelphia. His other friends seem to be people he either works with or goes to school with. The only stand-outs are a few with California addresses, probably the people he knows from his lifeguarding days.
As I click back to his wall, I get an error message saying that page no longer exists.
What?
I was just on it like a second ago. I hit refresh, and the same thing happens. Oh no, he doesn’t have some sort of detection software that alerts him to who is viewing his page, does he? Did he block me when he saw who it was?
I sit back in my chair, my face red with embarrassment. No one can see me, but it feels like I just got slapped in front of a room full of people.
I hit refresh again. I go to the Facebook home page and type ‘Adam O’Malley’ and check every single one of the hundred and fifty-seven results that pop up. None of them are him. He has disappeared…again.
I wake up the next morning, mad at the world. Overnight, nearly a foot of snow has fallen, and there is no way my trusty 1995 Dodge Neon is going to make it out of my driveway. Since my landlord doesn’t provide snow removal, it is going to take me a good hour or more to shovel out, if I can even make it up the road.
I grab my cell phone and call Charlie.
“Boss, it’s gonna take me a little while to get in today. Can I call you when I’m able to get on the road and meet up with you guys?” I implore.
“Adam, why in the world do you have to live up on that damn mountain instead of down here in the valley like everybody else?” he inquires.
“You know I’m a nature boy at heart. You gotta love the great outdoors,” I retort.
“Well, I bet you’re really loving it this morning. Just don’t throw your back out shoveling, okay? I’m gonna need you to lift these stretchers onto this damn ambulance when you get your ass down here. And I hope today we’re swamped with lumberjack-sized old ladies to really give your muscles a workout,” he remarks.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Check in with me later, kid. We’ll probably be somewhere near the interstate. We’re gonna be swamped with a lot of weather-related accidents. You always get those bastards who wanna drive a hundred miles an hour no matter what.”
“Okay, I’ll call you later.”
I hang up and look at the mammoth task ahead of me. Who needs to go to the gym when you lift critically injured people in and out of an elevated vehicle for a living? I take the snow shovel in hand and get to work.
Sweat is trickling down my back in no time, but I am making progress. Since the driveway slopes at an angle, I have to be careful not to lose my footing. It is mindless work, and that’s what worries me. My head is too full of things I don’t want to think about. But my thoughts can’t be contained.
April is marrying that scumbag. Well, in truth, I don’t really know the guy, but no one looks fondly at his replacement.
It’s funny, but a little over a year ago, I thought I had it all figured out. I found the girl I was going to spend the rest of my life with, or so I foolishly thought. Little did I know she was cheating on me behind my back.
Some of our friends must have known what was going on and didn’t bother cluing me in. They didn’t seem too surprised yesterday when they found out about her engagement. What kind of people did I get mixed up with? People who would see me go down in flames and then give her a pat on the back for moving on? I’m glad I’m away from that scene.
Sure, it was fun while it lasted. Getting to work at the beach every day? It doesn’t get much better than that. Sure, I had to patrol the surf and keep an eye out for anyone in distress, but that didn’t stop me from checking out the hotties in bikinis walking by, and man, they were there in abundance.
My nights were spent partying with my fellow lifeguards and their girlfriends either at someone’s place or down at the beach. Since we were underage, we had to keep our drinking on the down-low so we wouldn’t get caught, but that’s about as criminal as it got. Some of the guys liked their weed, but nothing stronger than that.
It was the life, plain and simple. But I gave it all up when it all came shattering down around me.
I couldn’t get enough of April. While I shared a place with a couple of the guys, the frat house environment really didn’t provide ample opportunity to hook up with your girlfriend. So we spent many nights curled up in the back of my Jeep looking up at the stars.
She was my first, and she felt so good, so right. I could lose myself inside of her. The softness of her skin. The tenderness in the way she touched me. The passion I felt on her lips. I was consumed, body and soul. She was my sustenance. I couldn’t survive without her.
But little did I know, I would have to. As quickly as she dispersed her love, she took it away. Little by little, she began to lose interest in me. I should have noticed the warning signs. Not calling me back right away. Making excuses about having to work longer hours. Wanting to spend more time with her friends. But I admit it—I was blind to it all. My infatuation knew no bounds.
That’s why waking up on this wintry morning is the slap in the face I deserve. It’s time to get back to reality and stop living some fairy tale that doesn’t exist. I need to be reminded of what is really important and stop goofing off and wasting time on what doesn’t matter. It’s about time I grew up.
Grandma is in a great deal of pain today. I feel so bad for her, but there is nothing I can do. The ER doc didn’t prescribe any pain meds, so I make sure to give her some Tylenol every couple of hours. But it doesn’t seem to be helping.
“Grandma, just take it easy today, ok? I’ll take care of everything,” I say.
“But Katie, your father will be looking for his breakfast. I have to fix him something,” she says.
“Well, let him keep looking,” I say. “You’re not to move from this couch. Doctor’s orders. He can’t argue with that.”
“I know, but he’s not going to like it.”
“Well, that’s his problem, not yours.”
“Oh, Katie.”
That is the lament of my life.
Oh, Katie.
And I see no escape from it. It is always doom and gloom. Living on eggshells, not to make him mad. It gets tiring. The constant stress wears you down.
Dad never physically hit either one of us, but his moodiness and verbal abuse are not easy to bear. Some days he’ll be in a fantastic mood, talking a mile a minute, going on and on. But most days, he won’t say two words to us. He’ll just sulk and mope around, grumbling if something isn’t to his liking, rarely bestowing a kind word or thank you for all that we do for him.
But he does financially support us, and I guess, in this economy, that’s a big deal. I’d be destitute if he ever did overrule Grandma and decide to kick me out. Where would I go? I have no steady source of income. I can’t support myself. I’d sink faster than a baby grand tossed into the ocean, only I’m not deemed as valuable. Society really doesn’t care about poverty-stricken women. They’re at the bottom of the food chain.
Dad is fanatic about attending church on Sunday morning. He’s already cleared a path through the snow for us to go. We’ll probably be the only two people there. But as I’ve heard a million times, “As long as you live under my roof, you’re gonna abide by my rules.” Like a rat in a trap, my free will goes straight out the window. So whether or not I want to go to church today, I’m going. No ifs, ands, or buts.
“Are you ready?” Dad calls.
“Yeah, I’m coming.” I respond.
Zipping up my coat, I brace myself against the chill that already permeates my soul.
After a nail-biter of a commute, I finally meet up with Charlie and Tommy at what we commonly refer to as ‘the hot spot.’ It’s an area of the interstate that is notorious when the roads get bad. Usually at least once during every winter storm, a Tri-County ambulance responds to a call where a motorist loses control.
It is an entrance ramp that comes off a severe downhill embankment before merging into on-coming traffic. The space for a driver to slide onto the interstate is pretty tight, so there isn’t much room to pause and make a move. If you can’t stop, you’re going to be in trouble.
Today is no different. I see the flashing lights from about half a mile away. There is no way I’m going to have time to turn around and circle back, so I park on the shoulder of the road on the opposite side of the interstate. I get out and hustle over to the scene.
“Kid, you made it. Good for you,” Tommy salutes me.
“Ah, he shoulda been here twenty minutes ago,” Charlie chuckles, slapping me on the back.
“Gee, thanks boss,” I respond.
“No sweat,” Charlie says.
“What’s the situation?” I ask.
“Looks like a pretty bad one. We’re the fourth ambulance here and we’re just holding back in case they need us. But they think they’re gonna have to call in the Air Evac team,” Charlie reveals.
“Wow, really?” I exclaim.
“Yeah, that red Toyota couldn’t stop and plowed right into the tractor trailer. They didn’t stand a chance,” Charlie states.
“How many people?” I question.
“From what we heard over the radio, a mother was driving with a little girl in the back. The mother’s gone. They’re trying to save the little girl,” Tommy explains.
I lump rises in my throat. I hate days like this. While most of the time, I enjoy my job. It gives me a sense of purpose that we are out here helping people, saving lives. But sometimes, there is nothing you can do. You are helpless against fate, against the frailty of the human body—against everything.
The tragedy unfolding before my eyes snaps things back into perspective. Who am I to be feeling sorry for myself when a little girl just lost her mother and is fighting for her life?
I’m not going to dwell on my problems any more. They’re not worth a minute more of my time. From now on, romance is going on the back burner. I came here to get my priorities in order, and that is exactly what I’m going to do.
Grandma isn’t doing too well. She’s not bouncing back like I thought she would. At seventy-eight, she’s up in age, but the accident seemed to rob her of her vitality. I blame the toll it took on her body for the case of pneumonia she’s fighting now. Her body is still trying to put itself back together after being slammed into by that moron’s runaway freight train. No wonder she was easy prey for a bacterial infection.
At first, the doctor wanted her to rest at home, take it easy. But I caught her on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor after Dad complained about Shelby’s muddy paw prints. Why didn’t she ask me to do it? Why does she always have to protect me and shoulder the burden?
It wasn’t long after the floor-cleaning incident that she ended up back in the hospital. It was the middle of the night and she was having difficulty breathing. I begged Dad to get help, but he insisted it could wait until morning. I’ll always wonder if those precious hours could’ve made a difference in the long run.
So now I spend most of my days sitting in a hospital room, watching Grandma deteriorate instead of improve. Today, I’m propped up on the window ledge looking out on a grey sky. No glimpse of sunshine, no glimmer of hope.
I have the home shopping channel on for Grandma to watch. I know it’s her favorite. But even the cheerful hosts, who now I even know by name, fail to capture her attention as she gazes listlessly at the wall instead of at the TV screen.
I’m worried…very worried.
Dad stops in sometimes, usually only two or three times a week for a few minutes. Otherwise, he waits to pick me up outside with the motor running. He can’t stand General. He used to work here in the maintenance department. It’s where he met his first wife. Needless to say, after a divorce, working in the same place as your ex isn’t exactly pleasant, especially when she is divorcing you. So Dad quit and went to work as a plumber. A decision, I think, he always regretted.
I don’t think his first wife even works here anymore. But I don’t know for sure. She also remarried, and I have no clue what her new married name is. In fact, I didn’t even know she existed until I stumbled across some old photos in the attic.
There was a wedding picture of Dad with a bride who was not my mom. Talk about a shock. When I asked Grandma about it, she took the picture from my hand and immediately changed the subject. It was only through searching old records down at the county courthouse that I found my answer. Josephine Travers. She was blonde, beautiful, and one of the few women who was able to stand up to Dad and get away with it. I really wish I could talk to her, if only for five minutes. I wonder what she’d think of me?
Sometimes, I wish with all my heart that Dad was open and honest with me about having been married before. I wish I didn’t have to find out in such a roundabout way. If he made a mistake in his past, why couldn’t he at least own up to it? Or does he think he did nothing wrong, and she’s to blame for everything? Probably the latter.
The emphasis on being perfect really gets to me. It’s a mantra instilled in me since birth. If I don’t live up to his lofty expectations, then I am nothing. I remember in middle school bringing home straight-A report cards only to have them ignored or barely remarked upon. It made me feel when I got to high school that I shouldn’t even bother trying.
Dealing with a weakened immune system didn’t help my grades either. It seemed I missed one day for every ten days I attended. I had a hard time staying well, especially in the winter months. I recall forcing myself to participate in a hockey game in P.E. with a temperature of one hundred and two, only to collapse in the locker room. Way to show my school spirit, right?
These long days spent in the hospital have me a little on edge. The possibility of infection lurks in every restroom and on every elevator button. I can’t get sick, I can’t. I will not abandon Grandma when she needs me the most. I refuse to leave her side until she makes it back home, fully recovered.
I have one diversion to pass the time—working up the nerve to walk the hallways looking for Adam.
Who knows?
Maybe I’ll randomly bump into him while he’s here on a call. I even strolled through the ER waiting room once, but I only saw Little Miss Perfect at the desk. Figures.
My internet search abilities prove a bit more helpful. I discovered a YouTube playlist of Adam’s favorite songs. Needless to say, I already downloaded them onto my iPod. It’s a diverse collection of tunes ranging from folk songs to the latest hits, but it’s introducing me to a whole new side of his personality. Does the ballad express a painful break-up he went through? Does he use the feel-good groove to get going in the morning? Does he listen to the comedic duet when he needs a laugh?
It’s a musical snapshot of what his life is like. Combined with my furtive imagination, of course. Yet it’s something substantial, something that truly came from him.