Chapter 3
The parking lot air hit my chest like cold water.
I hadn't realized how hot the restaurant had been until Dad pulled me through the side door. The night was sharp and I could see my breath in little white puffs that disappeared fast. Dad had the cake box balanced on one hand and my dark teal backpack over his shoulder, and my inhaler with the clear spacer was still in my fist. My fingers were sweaty around it.
My breathing had eased just enough that I wasn't whistling anymore, but every inhale still hurt. Dad knelt down beside our car. He didn't care that his knees were on the asphalt. He put one hand flat on my back and just let it sit there while I took those slow breaths he'd been counting for me inside.
"You okay to stand a second?" he asked. His voice was quiet.
I nodded. My throat felt raw.
She came out a minute later. Her red dress looked black under the parking lot lights and she had her purse clutched tight under her arm and a coat she hadn't been wearing inside. Her heels clicked loud on the pavement.
"You left the check on the table," she said to Dad. "You ruin my dinner, you know that? We were supposed to have a nice birthday."
Dad didn't stand up right away. He kept his hand on my back.
"I asked him quietly first," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. I had to stop and breathe. "Before the candles. I said, Dad, I need my inhaler."
Dad looked at me then at her. "He did," he said. "I heard him. You told him 'You always need attention.'"
She made a sharp sound. "Because he does. He waits until we're in public to do this. Stop pretending to be sick the second you don't get what you want."
I flinched. Dad's hand tightened a little on my back, not hard, just steady.
"Hey," Dad said to me, soft. "Let me see that." He took the inhaler from my hand, gentle, and turned it over. He popped off the cap and shook it near his ear. Then he looked at the little window on the back where the numbers were. He squinted under the yellow light.
He breathed out. "It's down to twenty doses," he said, more to himself than to anyone. "You threw his medicine across a dining room. If it had gone under a table or out a door—" He stopped and looked up at her. His jaw was doing that tight thing it did when he was trying not to yell. "If I'd lost it, he'd have nothing for the night. For the drive home."
She crossed her arms. The pendant on her necklace caught the light. "It was right there. You found it, didn't you? I barely tossed it. You are making this so dramatic. He ruin my dinner and now you want to act like I'm a criminal."
"Never touch his medicine again," Dad said. His voice wasn't loud. It was low and flat and he said each word with a little pause. "Do you understand me? Never. You don't take it, you don't move it, you don't touch his bag. Ever."
She stared at him. For a second I thought she was going to yell again, but she just laughed once, short. "Fine. Great. So I'm the villain because your kid can't handle a little excitement without wheezing."
Dad stood up then. He handed the inhaler back to me and I held it with both hands. He unlocked the car with the fob and the lights blinked.
"We're going home," he said. "You and I are not riding together tonight."
"What?" she said.
"You're taking your car. We're taking ours. I need to get him home and settled."
She looked between us, then at the cake box. "So that's it? You're just leaving me here?"
Dad put the backpack in the back seat and then lifted me in after it. He buckled me like I was much younger than seven, pulling the strap snug over the gray quarter-zip.
"There's nothing left to talk about here," he said to her over the car door. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."
She didn't answer for a long moment. Then she turned on her heel and her coat flared out. I watched her walk to the far end of the lot where her car was parked under the light. She didn't look back.
Dad got in the front seat and started the car. The heat came on with a soft rush. He pulled out slowly, past the restaurant windows where I could see people still eating, the white tablecloths glowing.
On the highway home he kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
"I'm going to call your mom in the morning," he said after a while. "And the pediatrician. Just to check you. Okay? First thing."
I nodded. My chest still felt tight and sore, like I'd run too far, but the cold air in my lungs had helped.
May you like
"Okay, Dad," I said.
He reached back with one hand and I grabbed two of his fingers and held on until we turned onto our street.
