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I glance back again, since he sounds sympathetic. Not that he’s about to ban me from leaving this building.
“You need something, you call. Okay?”
“Okay,” I reply.
The drive to the airport is a blur. So is the conversation at the desk with an airline worker who manages to get me on a flight to Amsterdam that’s leaving in twenty minutes with a connection to Boston.
Getting through security is a breeze with no luggage. I stopped at my apartment to grab my passport, but didn’t bother to grab anything else.
My flight is already boarding by the time I make it to the gate. The two-hour layover in Amsterdam is the worst part of waiting. I debate on calling my mom. She hasn’t reached out to me again, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. Maybe she overreacted, then showed up at the hospital to find out Tripp just had a broken arm or something. My phone dies during my deliberations, which makes the choice for me. Rather than buy a charger at one of the stores, I doze in an uncomfortable chair until it’s time to board my second flight.
It’s dark out when I land in Boston. I grab the first taxi I see and direct the driver to head to Mass General, ignoring the sympathetic look that destination receives. I don’t think many people rush to the hospital for any joyous reason. I never have. And I’m sure my grim expression conveys I’m not rushing to see a baby’s birth, which is the only happy occasion I can think of.
According to the clock on the dash, it’s almost midnight. It feels like it’s been several days since I left Germany.
My knee bounces for the entire half-hour drive, a mixture of relief and dread swirling inside of me when I spot the line of ambulances parked outside the huge building. I hand the driver my credit card, then head for the main entrance as soon as the payment is processed.
Inside is chaos. An announcement blares out of the loudspeaker. A baby is screaming. A man is shouting. I have to wait for a woman accompanying a little girl cradling her left wrist to discuss paperwork with the man behind the desk before I can ask about my brother. He tells me to take the elevator at the end of the hall to the third floor before answering one of the three ringing phones on the desk.
The layout on the third floor is almost identical to the one downstairs. A large reception desk in the front of a waiting area. I start toward the desk.
“Will.”
I turn, looking at my mom for the first time in months. I came to Boston for Christmas last winter, mostly to see Tripp. But she was there too, hovering in the background. Smiling when she saw us joking around together.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You really came.” She sounds surprised as she stands from the chair she was sitting in, and it pisses me off. I’ve always shown up when it really mattered. She can’t say the same.
“Yeah. How is he?”
“Out of surgery. In recovery now. He hasn’t woken up yet.”
“Should he have?”
She shrugs, a small, helpless motion that annoys me even more. I don’t deal well with uncertainty. If it’s bad, I want to know it’s bad. If it’s okay, I don’t want to be worried it’s bad.
I look around the mostly empty waiting room. There’s a middle-aged man in a chair by the tall windows, but no one else in sight. “Where’s his doctor?”
“They said they’d give me an update when they know more, Will. Don’t make a scene.”
My molars grind at the subtle chastisement, but I take a seat without saying anything. After a pause, my mom sinks back down beside me.
“How…how have you been?”
“Fine.” My response is short as I stare out the window at the bright lights of Boston. Of home, technically. But it’s never felt like it. Nowhere has.
“Your new team is…going well?”
“Yes.” I rub a thumb along the textured plastic handle, wishing she would stop talking.
“Germany. That’s exciting. Europe is supposed to be beautiful.”
My mom seems incapable of staying silent. She’s nervous. We haven’t spoken in months, and I know she’s worried about Tripp.
“What exactly happened?” If we’re going to talk, I’d rather it be about my brother than me.
“A driver didn’t see him when he was changing lanes.”
