Page 12 of Dublin Charmer
The ambulance’s sirens wail as we take a hard right. Christmas shoppers on the sidewalks turn to stare, their faces lit by storefront displays and wrapped-present decorations that seem obscene against our current reality.
“After my father…” she sighs. “Brenny’s all I have left.”
“Och, don’t talk like that, lovely. And you’re wrong. The Quinn family is a package deal. You may have only signed up for one, but you got us all.”
She brightens and swipes a hand under her eyes. “Thanks Finn.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m only telling you the God’s honest truth.”
The hospital entrance appears ahead, bright against the night. I swing into one of the few parking spots out front while the ambulance stops right in front of the glass double doors.
I take it as a good sign that nobody rushes out to help work on him.
Thatisa good sign, isn’t it?
By the time I jog around the truck to help Nora, the paramedics are unloading Brendan and setting the stretcher onto the concrete of the walk. His face is pale, an oxygen mask covering his mouth, but his eyes are open.
“Hey, Brenny. You woke up from your little nap.” But even as I’m talking to my brother, I can see he isn’t tracking much. “Nora’s here. She’s worried, so get your hamster back in that wheel of yours and give her a smile, will you?”
He spots Nora rushing beside the stretcher, and something in his expression eases.
Good. That’s good. At least he hasn’t got amnesia or some damned thing.
Nora hurries alongside the stretcher as they wheel him through the automatic doors. I follow close behind, the antiseptic hospital smell hitting as we enter. The bright fluorescent lights make the blood on our dress clothes look garish and theatrical, drawing stares from the waiting room patients.
“GSW to the right thigh, contusion to the head from the fall, patient responsive but altered,” the lead paramedic continues to rhyme off his report to the doctor who meets us in the corridor. “BP is 110 over 70, pulse 92.”
“Miss, you need to wait outside,” the paramedic says as we race past the waiting patients and through another set of double doors.
“I’m his wife,” she lies smoothly.
“And I’m his brother,” I add.
That seems to be enough to gain passage, and we continue on until they wheel Brendan into an exam room. When the trauma team rushes in, I gently pull Nora back to give the medical team room to work.
One nurse immediately begins cutting away the leg of Brenny’s tuxedo pants while another inserts an IV line, and a third moves straight to clean and examine his head wound.
“And you’re his family?” the doctor asks, glancing between us.
“We are,” I answer.
“When did this happen?” The doctor asks as he examines the gunshot wound.
“About thirty-five minutes ago.”
“Any allergies to medications?”
“No, none.”
“He hit his head when he fell,” Nora adds, her voice steadier now. “First on the edge of a stage, then on the marble dance floor.”
The nurse checking Brendan’s pupils nods. “Pupils equal and reactive, but there’s a significant hematoma forming.”
“How long was he unconscious?” the doctor asks.
“Twenty minutes before the ambulance got there. I’m not sure when he came to during the ride here.”
Brendan winces as the doctor probes around the bullet wound. “Aye. I’m sure that smarts, Mr. Quinn. Missed the femoral artery, though, which is why you’re still with us.”
