Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
If it weren’t for Dr. Martin and his sudden heart attack, I wouldn’t be here. Even though back in Boston I was basically out of a job, coming home, walking through the doors of my father’s legacy, was never the plan.
But plans don’t always work out.
“I hated the funeral, okay?” Dean snaps, his eyes welling up again. “I hated staying back there. My dad wouldn’t say anything. My sister wouldn’t stop crying. I had to get away. Not that it’s any of your business.”
It’s not. He’s right.
By experience, I know that this isn’t the last time he’ll cry or run away. This isn’t the last time he’ll be angry. My body goes tight at the thought of all the times he’ll want to punch something or someone. All the times he’ll want to forget the pain of losing his parent by either being reckless or so fucking numb that even his veins would freeze over.
“Your sister. Is she younger than you?”
“Yes. Why?” he asks suspiciously.
“She likes balloons?”
“Yes.”
I nod, my body relaxing at having something to do. “Come on. I know a place where we can buy balloons.” I come to my feet, my clothes sticking to me; I fucking need a shower to wash this day off.
We walk to the car and I think, tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll come back and visit the grave. Tomorrow, I’ll tell her all about what happened at Mass General and why I came back when I promised I never would.
But then again, telling her would be admitting failure, admitting that I might be like my father – a fraud – and I already know that tomorrow will never come.
We get to the car and I load his bicycle in the back. Dean loves my car, if his oohs and ahs are anything to go by. It’s a Mercedes sl550 convertible. My father never drove a Mercedes. That was the only reason I bought it. To prove that I’ve got a better car than him.
I drive Dean to the store, where we buy a bunch of balloons. By the time I drop him off at the funeral home, the rain has stopped.
I help him with his balloons and bike. Fishing my card out of my pocket, I say, “Call me if you ever run into trouble.”
“Are you gonna stick around for a while?”
I look at the overcast sky, thrusting my hands inside my pockets. Back in Boston, I was supposed to be promoted. I was going to be the head of their psychiatry department. Youngest in their history. Until I stepped down.
I don’t know if there’s anything left for me in Boston. But I can’t stay here, either. Not in this town.
I can’t say that to this boy, though. No idea why. But I can’t take away his hope when he’s looking at me like that.
“I think so, yeah.”
He grins, ties the balloons to his bike and take off pedaling. I stay there until I see him walking through the door, and then drive off.
Not to the house though. To the hotel.
A couple of hours later, I’m fresh out of the shower and in bed. I’ve got patient charts to read before the upcoming meetings this week.
Opening my laptop, I log into the system. The words seem blurry, like I’m looking through a lens of water. I reach out and pluck the glasses lying on the nightstand. No matter how much I try to deny it, I do need glasses for reading now.
My eyes have gone weak. Like his.
I put the glasses on; the words on screen make sense. Crystal clear. I pull up the only chart I’m interested in, for some unfathomable reason.
Name: Willow Audrey Taylor.
Age: 18
The girl with the silver hair and a tattered book.
The girl who likes to make things up.
The next morning I’m summoned by the king.
The ice king.
That’s what I’m calling him now.
He’s trying to get to know the patients, that’s what Beth and one of the nurses told me at breakfast.
I’m at his door right now. A brown, polished door that still says Dr. Martin’s name. Though the man inside is nothing like Dr. Martin. The man inside is much harsher, much colder.
Hence the name.
But it’s gonna be okay. Who cares if he’s cold and wooden? I don’t have to spend an eternity with him in that room. Get in. Get out.
“Be calm and sweet and gentle,” I mutter to myself. “Don’t get provoked. Don’t pour water on his papers. Don’t be defensive, Willow. He doesn’t think you’re crazy, okay? I mean, he probably does think that but whatever. You’re not here to impress him. So relax. It’s going to be okay. Don’t be an idiot. He’s probably gonna ask a few very general, very casual questions. Answer them. Just –”
I’m cut off mid-speech as the door whips open, blowing up my bangs. I look up and come face to face with the ice king.