Tipping the Balance (47 page)

“It’s about what I’d predict,” Jerry explained to them, Morgan and Nick and the St. Charleses in a small conference room away from the droning beep-beep of monitors and life-support equipment. “He’s been through a lot and lost a fair amount of blood.”

“Tell me, Mr. Fortier, is it standard procedure for nurses to give these kind of briefings?” Claire St. Charles said coolly.

“No, but none of the doctors want to do it,” Jerry said, smiling slightly. “It seems you’ve already developed quite a reputation. Now then, starting at the top, his concussion is getting better based on the fact that he’s awake and lucid. His jaw is wired to deal with the crack in his mandible. The blow, or one of them, also took out several teeth. Given Drew’s relatively young age, the periodontist will probably opt for replacements that screw directly into the jawbone itself, but that’s not anything we handle here and will have to wait until his jaw heals completely. He’ll continue to be fed through a gastric tube.

“The biggest problem right now is the hemothorax affecting the left lung,” Jerry said.

“A cracked jawbone I get, but what’s a hemothorax?” Edward St. Charles asked.

“Internal bleeding into the space around the lungs, in this case, the left lung. The more blood and other fluids that collect in the space, the less room there is for the lung to inflate properly. Eventually, if there’s enough fluid, the lung collapses.”

“My baby,” Claire whispered.

“We’ve got a drain, a chest tube, inserted between the fifth and sixth ribs. Given his cracked ribs, that can’t feel too good,” Jerry said, “but then those cracked ribs alone aren’t going to feel very good. In fact, they’re going to make breathing very painful. He’s not going to want to breathe very deeply, even once he’s off the ventilator. With only shallow breathing, phlegm—that’s snot for you, Mrs. St. Charles—collects in the lungs and causes pneumonia. So until he heals, Drew’s going to have some very fine painkillers so he can breathe normally.”

“What about the hand?” Edward asked.

Jerry shrugged. “The hand surgeon’s set it and done her best. He’ll have to have rehab it if it’s his dominant hand. I don’t remember.”

“Remember?” Claire said archly.

“Why yes.” Jerry grinned, his teeth startlingly white against his dark, dark skin. “Didn’t you know? Drew and I dated for about six months a few years back.”

Nick turned away to hide his smile, while Morgan bit his lip to keep from laughing. Claire St. Charles could be a dramatic, even melodramatic, woman, but Jerry did a fine job of refusing to let her cast herself in the role of the Tragic Victim’s Mother.

“Where were we? Oh yes, he’ll have to learn to use his other hand for various… bodily functions, but I’d imagine Drew’ll rise to the occasion. So. Rehab, and for the fractured patella and damaged knee joint too. He’ll be on crutches for a while, then maybe a walker or a cane. It just depends.”

“How long?” Edward asked quietly.

“About six weeks on the jaw. Roughly the same on the hand, maybe a little longer on the knee, since it’s load-bearing.” Jerry consulted the tablet with Drew’s medical records. “What else? Oh yes. The item of biggest concern right now is the blood in his urine. It—”

“Blood?” Clare gasped. “In his urine?”

Jerry nodded. “Have you noticed the rosy color coming down through the catheter and into the collection cup?”

“Yes, but I’d assumed it was blood or lymph or something draining, maybe from that collapsed lung you mentioned,” Claire said, one hand clutching her necklace.

“That tube is further up,” Jerry said. “It’s indicative of internal bleeding, and if it doesn’t stop, it’ll mean more surgery.”

Edward sighed. “More surgery. Poor Drew. What about that—”

“What about that horrid tube in his mouth?” Clare demanded. “I want it out so he can talk to me.”

“That ‘horrid tube’, Mrs. St. Charles, is right now the only thing keeping him breathing, and yes, it prevents him from talking because it goes down the back of his throat, in between his vocal cords and into the top of his lungs,” Jerry acknowledged.

Nick squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of something going that deep. “So how long before he can ream us out for all this?”

“It won’t be fast. He’ll have to be weaned off the artificial breathing, and even once he is, the tube will be left in until we’re sure he won’t need it again,” Jerry said. “It’s better than having to put it in again. It’s pretty common for the tube to stay a couple of weeks after he leaves the ICU.” Jerry held up a hand. “Before you ask, I don’t know. That’s up to the doctors. A week or two here, a few weeks more in the trauma nursing unit, then a rehab facility until he can take care of himself.”

Jerry looked at each of them. “Drew’s going to need everything we can give him.”

“We can’t stay away from work that long, but we’ll try to fly up here again,” Edward said.

Claire looked at them. “That means it’s up to you boys.”

Nick and Morgan nodded. “We won’t let him down,” Nick promised.

“Hi, Drew
. It’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, or where you are, but I hope you’re okay. I… I guess you’re really mad at me and don’t want me around anymore. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

He disconnected that call and made another one.

“Nick? It’s Brad. What the hell’s going on? Drew’s disappeared, and this is the third message I’ve left you.”

Brad ended the call. Usually he just slept the day after Turkey Day, but this year he could only worry helplessly. First Drew had disappeared, and then Nick and presumably Morgan, since those two had more or less been grafted together.

All the people he wanted in his life weren’t taking his calls, and the ones he didn’t want and frankly hated stuck to him like ticks. Randall, for sure. Philip could go either way. His brother’s retreat during his confrontation with their dad filled him with contempt, but then, so much did about life in the Sundstrom home.

Brad got up to go rummage through the fridge for leftovers. Randall might be an asshole, but he set a good table. Not that Brad was hungry, but it was something to do, and then he might feel guilty enough to go work off his nerves at the gym.

His cell phone’s bleating interrupted his mental ramblings on the way to the kitchen. Nick’s number flashed on the display.

“Nick! Where’ve you been?” Brad said, quickly returning to his room and locking the door to his cell behind him.

“Hey, Brad. Sorry. It’s been… rough,” Nick said, his voice cracking. He coughed. “Shit. I totally spaced on calling you. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Dude, what the hell’s going on?”

Nick was silent for a moment. “Drew was attacked Monday night on his way out of Aspects.”

Brad fell back onto his bed. “What? How… who… God.”

“We don’t know who yet. Morgan and some of the witnesses chased them, but they got away. The police are treating it as the hate crime it so obviously is.”

“Where were you and Morgan?” Brad demanded.

“We were still inside. Drew wasn’t in the best mood,” Nick said. Nick didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. Even a block of wood like Brad knew what those unspoken words meant.

Brad swallowed. Drew. His Drew. “So what happened?”

“Drew left early to take a cab back to my place to get his car. Morgan and I left shortly after. But in that interval, three men attacked Drew outside of the bar and severely beat him. It looked pretty bad, but I’m not sure his life was ever in that much danger.”

“Jeez,” Brad breathed. Nick’s description of the injuries made him sick to his stomach as his imagination scrawled blood and wreckage on his mental image of Drew.

“Sorry I didn’t call you sooner. We’ve been spending a lot of time at the Med Center, and I keep forgetting things like my cell phone charger. I think the only reason I’ve been home to shower and change clothes is Morgan’s insistence,” Nick said tiredly. “Drew’s in the ICU for a while longer. At least with school out this week for Thanksgiving we haven’t had coaching to worry about.”

“Do you think it’d be okay to visit him?” Brad asked quietly. At least he knew why Drew hadn’t returned his phone calls, but after that, he doubted Drew would even want to see him.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now, honestly,” Nick sighed.

“Right,” Brad said, squashing his hurt. He should’ve known better than to ask. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“I have to go, Brad. I’ll talk to you later.”

Brad didn’t bother to say goodbye as Nick ended the call. He didn’t see the point.

Guilt washed over him like a tsunami. He should’ve been there. If he’d been there, he’d have been able to protect Drew. If he’d been there, Drew would never have wanted to leave his own birthday celebration.

He might was well have kicked Drew himself. People could say what they wanted, but he knew the truth. This was his fault. He should’ve been there.

Brad stared at the ceiling, ignoring the ache in his chest and the knot in his stomach and the tears escaping the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of Drew lying battered and broken and bloody on the ground.

Drew must’ve been furious with him to have left his own house just to get away from him. Intellectually, Brad knew Drew was pretty unhappy, but it must’ve been a lot worse than he’d ever dreamed. And now? Now Brad knew that Drew hated him. How could he not?

His first real relationship was down in flames, and he had no one to talk to but Drew’s best friend and that guy’s boyfriend. They were the only gay guys he knew.

He’d failed. He was a failure

He spent the rest of the day there, staring at the ceiling, mired in despair, listening to the refrain of failure echo in his head.

Nick hated him too. He’d heard it in his voice. Why wouldn’t he? Brad had let Nick’s best friend down, had left his best friend to be savagely beaten. Brad would hate him too.

He knew it was best for all of them that he not return to coaching in January. If he were honest with himself, what he liked most about helping Nick was being on the water and around a boathouse, not the coaching per se. He’d finish out the semester, but once the crew was off the water for the holidays, he was done. Rather than resign officially, he’d send Nick an e-mail and then just slouch off into the murk of a foggy valley day.

Then it hit him. Work. He worked for Drew. This was why people didn’t work where they slept. He’d have to crawl back to his old man and beg for his job back. He’d told Randall it was only temporary, but he knew Randall. There might well be begging involved.

Brad rubbed his eyes. He needed a beer. Better to do this buzzing. That he hadn’t eaten since breakfast would help. He got up and opened a can of liquid courage and sucked it down. It was a little past its best-by date, but that wasn’t an issue. Then another.

Thus fortified, he headed out to humiliate himself. He heard voices as he approached the family room where his dad held court with the television.

He heard Alex Beltran, and he sounded angry. “You did
what
?”

“I did what I thought was necessary,” Randall said calmly.

“Sir, you shouldn’t go around me like that to contact my men directly. If this gets out….”

Randall sounded unconcerned, but then, he always did. “It won’t get out.”

“One of them already told me about the ‘special job’ he did for the big boss. How do you know they’re not in a bar bragging about it right now?” Beltran demanded.