Power Play (2 page)

I stood an inch away from Papa's stretcher, watching as one of the EMTs prepared the back of the ambulance before they lifted him into it.

Papa grabbed my arm and squeezed. I put my hand over his, patting it softly. “It's okay, Papa. You'll be okay.”

My words mimicked the silent matins in my head.
He'll be okay. He'll be okay.

Instead of a nod or relaxing his hand, Papa snatched it out from under mine and pushed aside the oxygen mask covering his mouth. “Get…your…ass…” Deep ragged breath. Deep ragged breath. Deep ragged breath. “Back…in that…store.”

“Mr. Bertucci, you've gotta keep the mask on, sir,” the EMT next to my dad said—Jessie, according to his name tag.

“Gabriella. Go,” Papa commanded.

“But, Papa—” I stammered, wiping at the tears in my eyes. My own father didn't want me to ride in the ambulance with him. Should I listen? Ignore his pigheaded command?

“Call Mom.” Papa paused to take another deep Darth Vader breath. “Tell her to meet me.”

I turned to Jessie and hit him with my best Puss in Boots pleading eyes.

Jessie shrugged, though his expression flashed sympathy. “We'll take good care of him. Call your mom. We're taking him to Receiving.”

The second EMT jumped out of the back of the truck, forcing me to take a few unsteady steps away from the stretcher. He and Jessie lifted Papa into the ambulance.

Jessie gave me one last half smile before closing the doors in my face.

With the click of the doors, my entire body shut down. My brain stopped delivering commands. My heartbeat slowed. My emotions ceased.

Zombie-fied on the streets of Detroit.

An asteroid of dread smashed into my stomach. The ambulance was long out of sight before I could even move.

Until my phone vibrated in the back pocket of my jeans, shocking me back to life. I glanced at the Twitter notification that caused the vibration.

Twitter: @DetBreakingNews Ambulance called to #EasternMarket

business. Follow for details.

Did people just sit by their scanners listening to the police blotter waiting for things to happen? Shaking my head, I swiped the bottom of my screen and pressed my thumb against the sensor on my phone until it unlocked.

I've got to call Mom
.

“Hello, my heart.” Mom answered the same way every time I called.

The tears rolled with my words. “I think Papa had a heart attack. He's in an ambulance. He wouldn't let me go with him. They're taking him to Receiving,” I rambled without taking a break.

“What? Gabriella, slow down. What about Papa?” Mom's voice escalated from confused to frantic with each word.

“Papa had a heart attack. The ambulance is taking him to Receiving.” I took a deep breath. “You have to meet him there.”

Her car keys jingled as she clamored around in the background. “I'm on my way. Sit tight. Please call your brothers. I'll call you when I find out what's happening.” Mom paused. “I love you, my heart.”

I hung up with my mom and called my brother Drew first.

“What's up, Duckface?” Typical big-brother answer. I'd posted a duck face picture on a social media site once. Once.

“Papa just went to the hospital. I think it was a heart attack. Mom's on her way there.”

“Where is he? How is he?”

“I don't know how he is, I mean, he was talking, but I don't know. The ambulance was taking him to Receiving. I'm calling Uncle Sal to see if he can watch the store. I'll be there as soon as I can. I gotta call Joey.”

“Do you want me to pick you up?” Drew asked.

“No, Papa's car is out back. I'd rather not leave it here.”

“Okay, see you over there.”

I hung up with Drew and tapped the phone icon next to the number I had stored for Joey, hoping it was his. As the oldest in our family, you'd think he'd be the most responsible and connected. Nope.

He'd packed a few bags and moved to Colorado a few years ago to be a ski instructor. I have no problems with anyone leaving home to make a life for themselves doing what they love. He would've probably been an awesome instructor, if he'd actually applied at any resorts. Instead, he'd been sleeping on one of his friends' floors, smoking pot, and playing videogames. At least that's what he was doing according to his Instagram account. He never called any of us to let us know what he was really up to.

As expected, Joey didn't answer. An automated voice told me what number I'd reached and instructed me to leave a message at the beep. Why couldn't he have a personal voicemail message so that I'd know I'd reached his phone?

“Hey, Joey, it's Gaby. Papa had a heart attack and he's in the hospital. Call me when”—I paused, since I wasn't sure if I'd called the correct number—”or if, you get this.”

Finally, I called my uncle Sal, Papa's brother, to see if he could come down to watch the store. Uncle Sal managed the produce store in Grosse Pointe and couldn't leave, but he promised he'd send Sammy, my cousin.

The bell above the door chimed as I walked back into the store, feeling scared, helpless, and rejected.

Landon looked up from his phone. “Gaby, what are you doing here?”

“My father just kicked me out of the ambulance.”

“He what?” Landon stuffed his phone into his pocket and crossed the room to meet me.

“He told me to get my ass back in the store and to have my mom meet him at the hospital.”

It had been only a few minutes since I spoke with Mom. Though I knew she had barely had time to back out of our driveway, let alone reach the hospital yet, it didn't stop me from checking my phone, waiting for it to ring or buzz with an update.

“I can't just stand here.” I spun around, glancing at every wall of the store. “I can't work. I can't think. What if they can't save him? What if—”

Landon grabbed my shoulders as he had earlier, squaring my body to his. “He's gonna be okay, Gaby.” Landon didn't blink as he reinforced the mantra that kept me strong until Papa was in the ambulance. “He spoke to you. He was alert. That's a good thing, right?”

The way Landon's eyes held mine reminded me of when I'd taken figure-skating lessons as a kid. My coach taught me spotting; picking a focal point so that I wouldn't get dizzy in my spin. Landon's mocha-colored eyes served as my focal point so I wouldn't get dizzy. For a moment, he was my spot. My safety.

“Yeah.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I think that's something good.”

Landon let me go and dug into the front pocket of his jeans. “So, I just searched ‘heart attack' on my phone. I watched this video that says ninety minutes is the key.”

“The key?”

I missed the warmth of his hands on my shoulders. I missed the safety I felt standing close to him. I missed the focal point I had staring into his eyes.

“Yeah. If he gets treatment within ninety minutes, he has a better chance of recovery.”

I swallowed my tears, reached up to rub my neck with my hands and took a deep breath. I exhaled as I whispered, “You can do this, Gabriella.”

“You can,” Landon confirmed. “Now get in your car and go to the hospital. I'll wait here for whoever is coming to take care of the store.”

“Papa would kill me if I left right now.” I glanced at the door, the register, and finally back at Landon.

“You make decisions every day for this store. You've got to trust yourself.”

Still, I stalled, because I usually had more time to analyze the pros and cons of my decisions and how they'd impact the store, and, most important, what Papa would think of the choices I'd made. To me, going to the hospital was a no-brainer, but Papa made it clear he didn't approve of my leaving the store in Landon's hands.

Who was Landon Taylor, anyway? A longtime customer, sure. A hockey player. A nice guy, as far as any interaction I'd had with him. A crush. An infatuation. A friend? Could I call someone I'd made small talk with for years, but didn't really know anything about, a friend? Could I trust our store to a person I barely knew?

No. Papa would have a heart attack if I left a stranger at our store by himself.

Or…another heart attack?

“I'm going to stay until Sammy gets here,” I said, my voice firm.

“Are you sure, Gaby?”

“I wasn't thinking clearly, Landon. I couldn't possibly ask you to take care of the store. I barely know you.”

Landon's slight wince caught me by surprise. But he recovered quickly, catching my eyes and holding them, as if searching for a fissure to pounce on. He wouldn't find any cracks in my shell though. The hurt expression that crossed his face when I'd refused his help was minuscule compared to Papa's wrath if I'd leave the store in the hands of a customer we barely even knew.

“Please let me help, Gaby.”

“I appreciate your offer, I really do. But leaving the store in the hands of a stranger wouldn't be a smart decision.”

“ ‘Stranger'?” Landon's voice squeaked with genuine surprise. “We've known each other our whole lives, Gaby. My parents wheeled me to the Bertucci Produce stand in a stroller before you were even born.”

“Where did I go to school?” I asked. Stumping him would prove my point.

“St. Paul's. Then that all-girls high school. I forget the name.”

How the hell did he know that? The only reason I knew where Landon had gone to school was because I'd practically memorized every word written about him in local newspaper features. I knew he had real talent and would go far. It might sound lame, but I liked the thought of being able to brag about knowing a professional hockey player before he was famous.

“When's my birthday?”

That was sure to stump him.

“July thirteenth.”

Damn.

“Favorite hobby?”

“Reading.”

Easy guess.

“Favorite band.”

“Twenty One Pilots.”

Aha!

“They aren't my favorite.” I gloated in his defeat.

“But you like them. You're going to their concert in a few weeks.”

WTF, kid?

“How did you know that?” I glanced past him. A slight movement outside the door had caught my eye, but no customers walked through.

“Told you we weren't strangers.”

“You're creeping me out. Seriously.” I thought I held the championship belt for scary stalker. At least I had a reason: Landon Taylor, my vote for sexiest man alive and hottest hockey player in the AHL. But there was no reason for him to remember random facts about me. “I'm not—anything.”

“Or maybe you're everything.”

“What?” My brain didn't have the capacity to wrap itself around everything going on right now. My dad had a heart attack. My crush alludes to me being everything—whatever that means. Can't think. Storage limit maxed out.

“I pay attention when it comes to you, Gaby.”

“But why?”
Surreal
couldn't even begin to describe this moment.

“You were my first kiss.” After sprinkling that confusing seed in my head, Landon spun around and walked out. Through the front window, I watched him thread his fingers together behind his head and raise them toward the clouds in a stretch as he disappeared from my line of sight.

So calm. So self-assured. He probably dropped bombs on unsuspecting fan girls all the time.

Meanwhile, I scoured my brain for the memory of kissing Landon.

How had I been Landon's first kiss? We'd never kissed. I would have remembered kissing him. I never would have washed my lips.

A dust bunny rolled past me, a reminder that I hadn't swept today, or yesterday for that matter. I retrieved the broom from the closet in the office in back.

As I swept, I thought about my life in kisses. There had been only a few and they were all with the same guy, Zack, the math geek I took to homecoming during my sophomore year of high school.

Zack had a chance to be my first boyfriend, until Papa made a horrifying comment about how we Italians knew the best places to hide bodies, especially in Detroit, where no one really cares or questions.

Mafia jokes had never been Papa's style. Must have been something about his little girl going to her first dance with a boy instead of a group of girlfriends that brought on the dash of dark humor. He was usually full of life. Full of love. Full of making decisions for the good of his family.

And all of that came with stress. The kind of stress that caused a heart attack.

I stopped sweeping the stupid floor and rested my forehead on the tip of the broom handle.

He'll be fine.

He'll be fine.

He'll be yelling at me again soon.

I straightened and resumed my manic cleaning. Every time I swept the stiff bristles across the painted concrete floors, the dust bunnies bounced and flurried to areas just out of my reach. Out of my control.

Reports. The idea came to me so suddenly, the broom slipped out of my hands, making a loud
thunk
when it hit the ground.

I'd take over the reports so Papa would never have to worry about them again. I'd figure out what we needed to do to make 313 Artisans profitable and able to stand on its own feet. If I could take the stress of this place away, Papa could focus on Bertucci Produce again and everything would be fine.

I stooped down and picked up the broom, running through problem-solving scenarios while I swept. All right. How do I make this place profitable?

Get customers in the door. How?

Advertising. Marketing. Word of mouth. Spokespeople?

Too busy brainstorming ideas and sweeping like a maniac, I didn't even hear the chime to alert me that a customer had entered the store. When someone tapped me on the shoulder, I spun around and raised the broom in self-defense. We hadn't had any problems at this store, but this was still Detroit and I had to be vigilant. On a normal day I'd never be working alone. My family rarely let me be alone.