Page 152 of Camp Bliss
I tap her contact, wondering just what kind of a situation she is having to deal with by herself? I know she had friends over for cocktails last night. Did one of them have too much and drive off the gravel road into the pasture? There are low spots that almost never dry out. A car without rear-wheel drive could get—
“Hi, you’ve reached Greta at Camp Bliss, please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Hey, babe. Sorry. I just got your message. Call me back, okay…” The impulse to sayI love youfeels as natural as breathing. I catch it just in time. “I miss you… Bye.”
I end the call and stand here in my parents’ den, holding onto the few moments of quiet to just think about her.
It’s been five days, and I miss her so damn much. The first few days here were a little crazy, and I couldn’t call her as much as I wanted. Mom was in a lot of pain after her surgery. She didn’t want to take the Norco the doctor prescribed, opting for OTC meds instead, but we just couldn’t stay ahead of the pain.
Watching Mom cry was fucking awful for me and even worse for Dad.
And, shit, they are healthy, thank God, and I expect them to live a long time, but I am not looking forward to the day when they can’t take care of themselves.
Because this sucks. Dad is stubborn as hell and gets crabby when he can’t do something himself—like shave with his right hand. Jesus Christ, I thought I’d walked onto the set of a horror movie when I caught him doing that.
Afterwards, his face was dotted with so many little wads of tissue, I told him he looked like a spitball fight casualty.
He wasn’t amused.
At least Greta was when I relayed the story the other night.
God, I miss her.
She doesn’t call back until I’ve got Mom and Dad piled into the car and we’re halfway to their first physical therapy appointment. But I’m not about to let her go to voicemail.
“Hey, Greta,” I answer and quickly add, “Say hi to Mom and Dad. We’re on our way to PT.”
“Oh—Hi, Sunny. Hi, Marco.” Her sweet voice fills the cab of Dad’s BMW. But she sounds tired.
“Hi, sweetheart!”
“Good morning, Greta!”
Both of my parents answer way too loudly.
Greta’s nervous laughter surrounds me. I grip the steering wheel to ground myself because my heart feels like it’s strapped into an ejector seat, ready to launch itself in her direction.
“Um… Zach, could you call me back when you have a sec?”
Worry gnaws at me. “Everything okay?”
“Ummm… Just… something unexpected?” Her voice is so pinched and high, it sounds like she’s been huffing helium.
Shit.
And she doesn’t want to go into it while my parents listen in.
Which means it’s not something mundane like a blocked toilet or a busted refrigerator.
It’s personal.
My concern narrows to her wellbeing. She sounds tired. Is she sick? She was on her period when I left, so that should be done, but what if she’s still bleeding? What if something’s wrong?
“A-Are you okay?” My mind races well ahead of me, calculating how quickly I could get to her if she needs me. How many obstacles stand in my way. Find a flight. Get to the airport. Crawl through TSA. Pace outside gate until my zone is called—
“I’m okay, Zach. I promise.” Even though I believe her, it’s clear in her voice something’s not right. “Just call me back when you can.”
“Okay, but—”
