Lifers (40 page)

“Is there anything we can do?” she whispered.

I shook my head.

“They’ve told us we have to be patient.”

I laughed an empty laugh. It wasn’t funny. It was painful. It was ridiculous. Who can be patient when you’re waiting to hear how your world has changed, maybe forever?

We waited. And we waited. The slow seconds wound their way toward minutes, and the minutes lethargically stretched toward hours.

We’d been there long enough for Bev to have drunk three horrible coffees, and two each for the rest of us, when a tired looking Mexican woman in green scrubs walked toward us.

“Mr. Kane?” she asked, looking to Paul for confirmation.

“Yes. Is he…?”

She gave a tight smile. “I’m Dr. Manoz. I’ve been treating your son. He’s pretty knocked up, but he’s going to be fine.”

My heart leapt and shuddered, and I learned to breathe again.

“We were worried about a head injury, but he started to come around a few minutes ago. The injury of most concern now is a detached retina. We need to take him into surgery immediately. There’s a good chance he won’t have any permanent loss of sight in that eye. He’s lucid now, if you want to see him. But only for a minute.”

If? If we wanted to see him? Why would we be wearing our hearts in plain view if we didn’t? Why would we be gray with fear?
I controlled my irrational anger, knowing that this doctor didn’t weigh or calculate the impact of every word she spoke. She should have. She should have realized. They ought to teach doctors to do that, because it matters. Every syllable that leaves their lips wounds or heals—they have that power.

“Just two of you,” she said. “He’s tired, a little confused, and in a lot of pain.”

Paul nodded; I just stared at her.

Bev gave my hand a quick squeeze and assured us they’d wait.

The doctor led us down a corridor, noisy with visitors, to a room that contained a dozen hospital beds. Most were empty, but the area at the bottom had a curtain pulled across.

She gestured toward the curtained bed.

“He has a number of injuries in addition to the detached retina and head laceration,” she said. “He has a fractured cheekbone, five broken ribs, his index finger on his right hand is crushed, and he has a sprained wrist, as well as a number of cuts and contusions.”

She pulled back the curtain with a quick jerk, and I swallowed hard. Jordan’s face was partially covered in gauze, and a large pad covered his left eye. His lips were swollen and his chest and arms were stained with vivid purples, blues and reds.

I sat beside the bed and took his good hand in mine.

“Hey, cowboy,” I choked out.

His right eye fluttered open, and I think he tried to smile.

“I’m so mad at you,” I said, as tears began to fall. “And you look like shit.”

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he mumbled from between his bruised lips. “Just payin’ a debt.”

Paul stood wordless next to me, his hand resting on my shoulder. Jordan’s gaze flickered upward.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Your girl’s right,” he said, laughing to stop himself from crying. “You look like hell, son.”

“Feel like it,” he mumbled, his eyelid fluttering closed again.

Dr. Manoz bustled back into the room.

“We have to take him now,” she said. “It’s a standard procedure and is normally performed under local anesthetic. Because of his other injuries, the surgeon, Dr. Linden, has decided to use a general. The procedure usually takes about an hour but Jordan will feel sleepy for six to 12 hours afterward. If you have any questions, Dr. Linden will be happy to answer them.”

“I’ve got to go now,” I said to Jordan, quietly. “Places to be, things to do.”

I think he tried to smile but I couldn’t be sure. I leaned down, hoping to find somewhere undamaged to place a soft kiss. He even had blood in his hair.

The doctor hustled us out of the room immediately, and abandoned us in the corridor. Bev pulled me into a tight hug.

“He’s goin’ to be okay,” Paul said.

He went on to list Jordan’s injuries while Bev and Pete looked on appalled.

“You guys should go on home now,” I said, quietly. “He won’t be awake until tomorrow morning now. You should get some sleep.”

“Come with us,” Bev pleaded. “You need to rest. We’ll bring you back in the morning.”

I shook my head.

“No, I’m staying.”

She sighed and made me promise to text her the moment we knew anything.

The echo of their footsteps followed them down the corridor.

A nurse came to move us from the ER to a surgical waiting area. Maybe she just wanted us out of the way. Maybe another family would be coming in, desperate to hear whether their special someone was going to make it. The hospital machine had to keep on grinding away.

A few minutes later, a cheerful man of about fifty wearing the now familiar green scrubs of a doctor, entered the room.

Dr. Linden had a professional warmth, and a calm, kind expression. It was the sort of face that you instantly trusted even if you didn’t want to.

“We’ve caught the damage early,” he said. “There’s still a 10-15% chance that Jordan will need a further operation, but I’m hopeful that won’t be the case. It’ll be very uncomfortable for him for a couple of days, particularly because the area around the eye is already badly swollen. Healing takes two to six weeks, but because of insertion of gas into the eye during the procedure, Jordan will eventually develop a cataract in his left eye. This is easily treated when the cataract matures in two or three years. With luck, there’ll be no permanent loss of vision.”

He nodded. We nodded.

Paul signed the consent papers and we were left alone.

I didn’t feel like talking, but Paul asked me to explain what had happened. He was raw with grief by the time I’d finished.

“Ryan Dupont,” he said, over and over. “I cain’t believe it. They were friends.” He shook his head.

I didn’t have any comfort left to offer him.

Just for something to do, Paul went to find food and drink. I couldn’t stand any more of that foul coffee, so he promised to hunt for a soda machine.

I made a promise, too. I promised myself that as soon as Jordan was well enough to travel, as soon as his parole had ended, we were getting the hell out of this poisonous little town. We’d face forward and never look back. We’d find somewhere we could both start again. I’d find a job as a paralegal, and Jordan could finish his ASE training. We’d get our own place and start to build a future together. Maybe Paul could come visit. Maybe we…

“What are you doin’ here?”

I looked up and saw Jordan’s mother staring at me, dislike distorting her face.

“Don’t start with me, lady!”

She’d just challenged the wrong fucking woman.

Torrey

“Don’t start with me, lady!” I snarled. I stared back at Jordan’s mother, my anger molten, becoming volcanic by the second. “I love him. What’s your excuse?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, ready to reply, but the door swung open and Paul returned carrying the sodas and sandwiches. His eyes shuttled between us, taking in my rigid posture, clenched fists, and Gloria’s ugly, accusing glare.

Without speaking, he handed me the cello-wrapped food and one of the cans, then he looked at his wife.

“He’s goin’ to be okay, Gloria.”

I swear, if she looks disappointed for one second I won’t be responsible for my actions
.

She nodded jerkily, acknowledging Paul’s words.

“He’s in surgery now…”

“I thought you said he was goin’ to be okay,” she interrupted, and for a moment I thought a saw of flash of something other than hatred, but it was gone too quickly for me to be sure.

“He is,” Paul replied, quietly, “but they have to repair a detached retina. He also has some broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, cuts and bruises.”

She snorted and settled herself onto a chair, looking irritated.

“You called me here for that? I thought … never mind.”

I was on my feet again, glaring down at her.

“What? What! That wasn’t enough for you? What the fuck is the matter with you? He was beaten unconscious by four thugs. He could have been killed!”

She seemed stunned by my attack, but not the words I’d spoken.

“Are you goin’ to let her talk to me like that?” she gasped outraged, staring at her husband with righteous indignation.

“If she hadn’t said it, I would,” he snapped, his voice becoming sharper.

“I’ve driven all this way…” she began.

“And why’s that?” I snarled. “Why are you here? Why did you even bother?”

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me like I was shit on her shoe.

“I don’t answer to you!”

“I don’t think you know why you’re here,” I said, venomously. “Probably trying to look like you’re doing the right thing again.”

“He’s my son,” she shot back, furiously. “I’m here to take care of him.”

Seriously?
I laughed out loud, a hard, bitter sound.

“Like you ‘took care’ of him for the last eight years?”

Her hands twitched and a muscle beside her eye jumped.

We were practically nose to nose, ready to slug it out, when we were interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for any of us to reply, a nurse marched into the room, escorting two men in suits.

They took in Gloria’s furious stare and my angry stance without comment. The nurse just raised her eyebrows. Fighting families—nothing she hadn’t seen before. Hospitals bring out raw emotions, it’s inevitable, like death and taxes.

“I’m sorry to intrude at this difficult time,” said the taller man, without sounding the least bit sarcastic. I wondered if he’d practiced that tone. “My name is Detective Lopez and this is my colleague Detective Sanders. I wonder if you could take a few minutes to answer some questions.”

Paul nodded and waved them to a pair of plastic seats.

I took a deep breath and turned my back on Gloria. If I didn’t look at her, I might be able to calm down slightly. I slumped into a seat and popped the tab on my soda, taking a long drink.

The police officers took our names and carefully noted our relationships to Jordan. I could see his mother quiver in her seat when Paul described me as Jordan’s fiancée.

“And this isn’t the first time he’s been targeted,” I snapped, rubbed the wrong way by the slow progression of the interview. “He’s been threatened before and I have a photo of what they did to his truck a couple of months back.”

I scrolled through the many pictures of me and Jordan on my phone to find the image of his mutilated truck.

“And before you ask, no he didn’t report it. He was too … he prefers staying away from you guys, for obvious reasons.”

They looked at the photo, made a note of it and asked me to forward it to them, but otherwise didn’t comment. Then I had to describe again what had happened in the town square outside the bank.

My voice broke several times while I was retelling the story yet again, and Paul held my hand. Gloria’s eyes nearly leapt out of her head.

When I’d finished, the detectives looked incredulous.

“You’re saying he never threw a single punch? Even though four men were beating on him and his girlfriend?”

I lifted my chin at the insinuation that I was lying.

“None of them hit me. One restrained me.” I slipped off my cardigan and showed them the bruises on the tops of my arms where Leather Jacket had grabbed me. “I couldn’t get to him … I couldn’t … while the others … while the others brutalized Jordan.” I swallowed back the too fresh fear as the memory fought to swamp me. “And if you look at Jordan’s hands you’ll see that the only bruises are where the one with the cowboy boots stamped on them.”

Lopez raised his eyebrows and exchanged a look with his colleague.

Jordan’s mom snorted in disgust and I turned on her, ready to slap that sanctimonious bitch into next week, police or no police.

“My son is a coward, Detective,” she said, her voice ringing with disgust. “That’s the simple truth.”

“Gloria!” shouted Paul.

I was on my feet, shaking with anger.

“Every time they knocked him down he stood right back up and faced them … every time … until he couldn’t stand up anymore. That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, other than facing your hatred every day.”

Silence settled around us, until Lopez cleared his throat and announced that he’d be in touch.

The officers stood up to leave.

“Wait!” I snapped. “What about the men who attacked Jordan? Have you found them? Jordan knew one of them—Ryan Dupont. Will you go after them, too? What happens to them?”

“We have one man in custody,” Lopez confirmed.

“Just one? There were four of them!”

Sanders gave me an even look. “Ryan Dupont turned himself in, but he refuses to name the others involved. We need to speak to your fiancé to see if he wants to press charges.”

My lips thinned until I was sure they were a white, bloodless slash across my face. I knew that would never happen. Jordan would never press charges. He’d said he was ‘paying a debt’ earlier. God, I hoped that debt was finally paid up in full because I didn’t know if I could take much more of this.