Scars

The flaky layers of the croissant shattered with a satisfying crispness as I bit into it, the buttery richness melting on my tongue. This tiny corner table at "Le Petit Bonjour" had become my sanctuary, a place where the lingering anxieties of job applications and the general uncertainty of post-graduation life could be momentarily forgotten in the simple pleasure of a perfect pastry and a strong latte.

My phone, nestled beside my half-eaten breakfast, vibrated insistently against the wooden tabletop. I frowned, glancing at the unfamiliar number displayed on the screen. Usually, my calls were from recruitment agencies I barely remembered applying to or my mom checking in. Hesitantly, I swiped to answer.

“Hello?” 

The voice that answered was flat, devoid of any warmth or inflection. “Davina Wilson?”

A knot tightened in my stomach. It wasn’t a voice I recognized. “Speaking.”

“Your father, Mr. Malcolm Wilson, is in the hospital. He suffered a heart attack.”

The buttery sweetness of the croissant turned to ash in my mouth. Malcolm. The name felt foreign, a relic from a life I thought I’d left behind. My father. A man whose presence had evaporated from my world years ago, a clean break after the messy, acrimonious divorce. He hadn’t called, hadn’t written, hadn’t so much as sent a postcard in what felt like an eternity. A heart attack? The image of a man I barely remembered clutching his chest felt surreal, almost comical in its absurdity.

“My… my father?” I stammered, the cafe’s comforting hum suddenly a distant, muffled sound. My fingers tightened around my coffee cup, the ceramic digging into my skin. “But… I haven’t heard from him in years.” The words felt inadequate, a pathetic understatement of the chasm that had grown between us.

The voice on the other end remained impassive. “He asked for you.”

That single sentence hit me with the force of a physical blow. He asked for me? After all this time? After the silence, the deliberate cutting off of ties? A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips. It had to be a mistake. Some cruel, twisted prank.

“There must be some mistake,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “My father… he wouldn’t…” The words trailed off, the reality of the situation, however improbable, starting to sink in. A cold dread began to bloom in my chest.

The line went silent for a beat, amplifying the frantic thumping of my own heart. Then, the voice simply stated, “City General. Room 312.” And then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the call ended, leaving a hollow echo in my ear and a gaping void in the normalcy of my morning.

My croissant lay forgotten on the plate, its golden-brown layers now a stark reminder of the peace that had just been shattered. Malcolm. In the hospital. Asking for me. It made no sense. It was wrong. Yet, a strange, unsettling pull, a morbid curiosity mixed with a flicker of something I couldn’t quite name, began to tug at me. What was going on? And why, after all this time, did my estranged father suddenly want to see me?

The questions swirled in my mind, as bitter and unsettling. The cafe, once my sanctuary, now felt like a cage, and the sunshine streaming through the window seemed to cast long, ominous shadows. 

My breath hitched in my throat, a strangled sound escaping my lips. "Room 312," the disembodied voice had said. City General. My mind raced, trying to reconcile the cold, distant father I remembered with the image of him lying in a hospital bed, asking for me. It felt like a scene ripped from a bad dream.

Pushing back my chair with a harsh scrape against the tiled floor, I practically ran out of the cafe. The L.A heat hit me like a physical weight as I hurried down the street, my mind a whirlwind of disbelief and a growing sense of urgency. City General wasn't far, a stark, modern building a few blocks away.

Bursting through the automatic doors of the hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic and the hushed murmur of voices assaulted my senses. I spotted a nurse at the reception desk, her expression calm and professional.

"Excuse me!" I blurted out, my voice tight with a mixture of anxiety and a strange, unwelcome surge of emotion. "My father... Malcolm Wilson? He's in room 312. I need to see him."

The nurse's fingers tapped efficiently on her keyboard, her gaze fixed on the screen. After a moment, she looked up, her brow slightly furrowed. "Wilson... Malcolm Wilson... yes, he's a patient here."

Relief, sharp and unexpected, pierced through my anxiety. "I came here as soon as I received your call, about his heart attack. Can you tell me how he is? And... can you take me to his room, please?" My voice trembled slightly, the years of estrangement creating a strange barrier even now, in this moment of potential crisis.

The nurse's gaze softened slightly. "He's stable and he is currently resting. However," she paused, her eyes meeting mine with a hint of confusion, "He did not suffer a heart attact and.. we didn't call you."