Page 137 of Mangled Memory
At least I’m not callous enough that I’m unaffected. Small victories.
When I exit the powder room, Liam is on the phone. “Got it. Thanks” He looks up at me as he drops the phone from his face. “They’re at Porter.”
“If I never have to visit a hospital again, it will be too soon.”
“Right there with you. Except for babies. That shit is not happening at home. Though, at this rate, Christian may never let you out of the house.”
I stare dumbfounded at my brother. My brows cinch together as if them touching each other will have this all make sense.
“What? The baby talk makes you mute?”
“No. I’ve just never heard you say that many words in a row. Ever.” I pause and shake my head as if I can clear it. Then mostly to myself, I add, “And you were talking about babies.”
“Yours. Not babies in general.”
“My brother, the sentimental fool.”
His bark of laughter is the lightest thing I’ve heard all day. And it’s a good thing, because when we hit the hospital, we discover the fallout of Dad’s “business partners” not getting their way.
Mom is already in the waiting area. Cian is in the emergency room. Fitz is in surgery. There has been no update on Christian.
My oldest brother has a broken eye socket. Miraculously, he doesn’t have a shattered jaw though he does have a referral for a plastic surgeon and a maxillofacial specialist. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. I think I’d skip the whole business and choose a coma for a week.
The bone around the eye had a clean break with no fragmenting. Best case scenario or so they say. I’d argue that not having a break that close to your eye and therefore no risk to your vision would be better, but science people don’t listen to “people in the arts” with the respect they should.
Or hysterical sisters either, it seems.
When the time is right, I’ll give him shit for needing a plastic surgeon, but it won’t be right for a long, long while.
Liam slides his phone from his pocket, thumbs the screen, and walks away without another word.
I hope he’s getting an update on my husband. Why haven’t we heard anything?
I fall asleep before he returns, unable to keep my eyes open anymore. Long day, adrenaline, and stress form a nauseating cocktail that I’m helpless to overcome.
I awaken several hours later, wishing I’d rethought the decision to contort myself into the shape of a square hospital chair when I passed out.
It’s well over eight hours later when Cian wanders out to the waiting room where Liam, Mom, and I are fighting to stay calm. He looks ready to faceplant in exhaustion.
I rush him, wrapping him up in my arms, needing for one moment to have him all to myself. “You came for me.” The words seem to come from nowhere. Just like the tears that roll down my face.
Cian squeezes me and looks over my head to our brother. Something passes between them that I’m too emotional to figure out and too exhausted to care about. He pulls back to look at me, really look at me, and boops my nose. That causes the tears to stream.
My brother is safe.
He isn’t dead.
And I’m not the reason he knows the feel of copper and lead in his body.
Our moment is over too quickly and we’re surrounded by Liam and Mom. She runs her fingertips delicately down the side of his face, all the while the color drains from hers. “Cian,” she starts on a choke. “Oh, my love. I can’t believe this happened to you.”
His one good eye slices to her. His lips remain closed. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. To speak, to breathe. God forbid he wants to clench his teeth or do anything to express dissatisfaction.
He wraps me under his arm, pulling my front to his side. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. His hand is too tight, but it’s like he needs me for his own strength.
“Do you want to come sit?” Mom asks.
“You’re coming to my house.” I say. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m no Florence Nightingale, but we have great espresso and Corinne can make any soup you want.” And it’s safe. “Please. Just for a few days. For me.”
