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“I don’t know how long I’m going to be, and I don’t want to feel rushed,” I said. “Please go. I’ll call you when I’m done, okay?”
A few light creases deepened across his forehead as Brandon glanced between me and the doctor, clearly frustrated by his inability to step in and fix everything. Finally, he sighed and gave up.
“All right,” he said. He leaned down to give me a quick but thorough kiss. “Call me as soon as you’re ready to go. I’ll have David come get you.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll need to go home anyway and take care of Bubbe, and I’m not making David schlep me all the way to Flatbush. He doesn’t know the area, and he’ll get lost on the way back. The last thing you need is for your driver to be carjacked.”
Brandon scowled. “I don’t want you taking the train home by yourself this late at night.”
“I’ll take a cab,” I conceded.
“Skylar.”
“Brandon. I promise. Bye.”
Brandon’s eyebrows pushed together in concentration as he examined me. Finally, he brushed his knuckles lightly over my cheek and delivered a light kiss on my forehead. “All right. But call me when you’re home, all right?”
I watched him leave, then followed the doctor into the ICU.
Dad lay in a room full of curtained off hospital beds. All of them were attached to several different machines and IV bags, and a constant stream of beeps and hums echoed throughout the large room. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep with such a racket, but by some miracle, Dad and most of the other patients appeared to be completely out. It was a good thing too, because at the sight of him, I choked back a deep sob.
His face was swollen and purple, with an ugly cut across one eye and bandages over his nose that would have made him unrecognizable if it hadn’t been for the familiar floppy hair hanging limply over his distorted features. His left hand was dressed heavily in gauze and splints, while the rest of him lay prostrate, propped up on pillows.
“We’re keeping him sedated to manage the pain,” Dr. Carraway informed me.
“Will he be okay?” I asked. “Just give it to me straight, please.”
Dr. Carraway looked at me frankly. “Well, essentially your dad got the shit beat out of him, if you’ll excuse my French.”
I exhaled. Good. I had a doctor who was willing to be honest.
“Did—do you know how it happened?” I asked, unable to pull my horrified gaze away.
The doctor shook her head. “No. He’s probably scared of whoever did it. He has six broken ribs, a fractured nose, a fairly serious liver laceration, and his hand was essentially crushed. Three second, third, and fourth metacarpals with multiple fractures, and two phalanges as well. Look, I’ve seen injuries like these before, and they require a bit more…equipment…than just a few punches to the gut.”
Immediately I imagined Dad bloodied on the ground while some faceless goon went at him with a bat. My throat felt like it was going to close. Dr. Carraway put a hand on my shoulder, although I could tell she wasn’t the kind of person who offered much in the way of comfort. That was okay. Her job was to take care of my dad, not me.
The emergency surgery to repair his liver was successful, the doctor said, but Dad would need another to repair his hand. She expected that would be in another two or three days, as soon as the biggest dangers from the liver repair had passed. As long as everything went all right, he would be out of the ICU tomorrow, but he might have to stay in the hospital for observation until the second surgery.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Dr. Carraway said. “The hand is really the worst part now, and it’s not life-threatening.”
That wasn’t saying much. She didn’t know how important his hands were to him.
“When will he wake up?” I asked.
The doctor shrugged. “Probably not until tomorrow morning. We’ve got staff here twenty-four seven to monitor him, but it’s best that he sleeps. You could go home and take care of your grandmother. She seems like she needs a steady hand.”
I grimaced. Undoubtedly Bubbe had been giving the hospital staff a major headache while Dad was in surgery.
I reached out to touch Dad’s unmarred hand. He stirred and moaned a little; I drew away and followed Dr. Carraway back to the hall, where we could talk without disturbing the patients.
“What about his hand?” I asked. “Will he…will he regain full function?”
Dr. Carraway pressed her lips together. “Your grandmother mentioned that he’s a musician. To be honest, that’s a question for the hand surgeon, Dr. Bennett, who will be here tomorrow morning. He’s great—I know he specializes in some of the newer techniques for metacarpal repair. But I wouldn’t expect a miracle.”
* * *
I leftthe hospital ready to call Brandon. But suddenly all I could see was the shadowy face of my father’s attacker, and I knew what I had to do. I did a quick search and pressed dial.
