Page 49 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
The IV kicks in and everything gets blissfully floaty.
Let the rest of them figure it out. Ben’s off duty.
Saturday
Chapter 25
Jackson
Fractured clavicle. It’s obvious from the second the EMT pulls aside Ben’s collar and presses two fingers to the jut of bone beneath the already bruising skin. Maybe ribs, too. Hard to say. Ben had gone quiet, tight all over, as soon as they touched him, more from resignation than pain, like he already knew. Like he didn’t want to make a fuss.
Now Ben’s gone, out of reach, wheeled somewhere into the fluorescent belly of the hospital to be imaged, assessed, tucked behind curtains in rooms with too many wires and not enough privacy. Somewhere even his father’s considerable influence can’t follow for the moment.
Jackson sees how much that rankles Ben Jr., Mr. Whitaker, senior Ben, Dad, whatever name fits a man who looks like he might personally demolish the wing with his name on it any minute now. It’s there in the way his jaw is clamped. His restless glance endlessly flicks toward the swinging doors at the slightest movement. He stares at the wall clock over and over, as if angry it’s not moving faster. It’s the same panic he’s seen in Ben, but in a more expensive suit.
Jackson sits beside him. It felt wrong not to, once the nurse disappeared with Ben. Once there was nothing to do but wait.
Jackson doesn’t belong here. He knows that. He’s not family. He’s not anything, technically. Just a guy who followed a story straight into something deeper than he expected. He can’t think of another place that would make sense right now.
“I’m going to get us some coffee,” Ben’s father says, standing abruptly, the first words he’s spoken in over an hour. “What do you take?”
Jackson glances over, a little startled. “Black’s fine.”
Mr. Whitaker gives him a dry, assessing glance. “Son, I’ve had more bad hospital coffee than I care to admit. You sure I can’t talk you into a little cream and sugar?” There’s a note there, gruff, but not unkind.
“Dealer’s choice,” Jackson says after a beat. “Just no powdered creamer. I have standards.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
He disappears down the corridor, heading toward the vending machines or maybe just into the illusion of usefulness.
When he comes back, it’s with two paper cups and a metaphorical olive branch. Jackson accepts both with a quiet thanks and takes a sip that immediately confirms his low expectations. It’s awful, even with the cream, but he drinks it anyway.
Mr. Whitaker lowers himself into the chair again. “It’s not the first time he’s been hurt,” he says, after a moment.
Jackson turns to look at him.
“He broke his arm falling off the breakwall when he was eight. Trying to rescue a seagull, of all things. Damn bird wasn’t even injured; it flew straight at him the second he got close. Scared the hell out of him.” His voice goes quieter. “I watched it happen. Couldn’t stop it.”
Just like that, the executive polish slips. There’s no CEO sitting beside Jackson now. Just a father, worn and weathered at the edges.
“I told him to be brave. That I needed him to be strong.” He doesn’t look at Jackson as he speaks, just stares toward the double doors. “He didn’t cry. Not even when they reset the bone.”
Jackson swallows.
“I used to be proud of that.” The words fall out flat. “I keep thinking about how his mother used to tell me to slow down. Toseehim. Not just push him forward. Just…bewith him.” A soft, humorless laugh escapes him. “She was right. She was always right about that sort of thing. I let it get too far. I let him push himself too hard. I thought it would protect him.”
Jackson’s first instinct is to snap something cutting. He bites it down. Tries, for Ben, to meet this moment the way Ben would. “He didn’t want to let you down.”
Mr. Whitaker flinches like the words hit something soft. “He hasn’t,” he says hoarsely. “He never has. Not once.”
Jackson nods, looking down at the coffee cooling in his hands. “Wouldn’t hurt to tell him that.”
That hangs in the air until the nurse steps in and calls Mr. Whitaker’s name.
Jackson rises halfway, uncertain, but Mr. Whitaker glances back and gives a nod.Come on. You too.
Ben’s already dressed when they find him, or mostly. He’s frowning down at what’s left of his cut-open shirt, trying to line up the buttons one-handed. He’s off by at least two. One side of the collar is sticking straight up, the other trapped under the sling. The hem’s half-tucked. He looks irritated and pathetic and so wonderfully, reassuringlyokaythat Jackson’s knees go a little loose just seeing him.
