The After Party (A Badboys Boxset)

by Karr, Kim

  “What about the other victim?”

  “Woman about the same age stabbed in both arms. Conscious, but not alert. She may be on something.”

  Moments later the doors crashed open and the paramedics powered through them. With fast feet, I trotted alongside them as they wheeled the first patient in. It only took me a moment to recognize the man lying on the gurney. “Peter,” I said out loud.

  “You know him?” one of the medics asked.

  I nodded. “Dr. Wright. He used to work here. What’s his condition?” I asked, already assessing it for myself.

  “He’d lost a lot of blood before we arrived. Pressure dressings were applied. And we started two IV’s.”

  “Has he been given anything for pain?”

  “Base ordered morphine.”

  “Anyone with him?”

  “Yes, the other victim.”

  I looked over to the third year resident that was on my heels. “Rule out other possible injuries and book an OR, stat.”

  “Yes, Dr. Kissinger, I’m on it.”

  While this third-year resident followed Advanced Trauma Life Support protocols, I quickly turned around to check on the second victim being wheeled in and froze. The haggard, unkempt looking woman was covered in blood . . . and she was my mother. “Monica,” I said hoarsely.

  She looked up. Unfocused. “Jake, is that you?” she cried.

  I nodded. Stunned.

  It had been a long time since I’d seen her.

  She reached for me. “Oh, Jake.”

  Fear seized my balls.

  This was a nightmare.

  “Jake,” she cried louder. “Talk to me, baby.”

  Ignoring her pleas, I looked over at the paramedic. “What’s her condition?”

  “Superficial stab wounds. Small pupils. Burn marks around her mouth. Dark circles around her eyes.”

  I cut him off. “Heroine?” I asked, barely able to get the word out.

  “As far as I can tell she’s a habitual user. However, there were no traces of drugs on her person at the scene. In fact, her and the male were attacked leaving a church after attending a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.” It took me a moment to gain my bearings. I hadn’t seen her in so long.

  This woman was my mother.

  And a drug addict?

  Alcoholic I could have guessed, but the other?

  I forced away all of my own shit. “Emergency can stitch up her wounds,” I told him, keeping my voice neutral, calm, while my insides screamed. He nodded and veered to the right while I went left.

  “Jake,” she called, but I didn’t have time for a reunion right now. I had to scrub up and take care of Dr. Wright.

  My patient.

  “I’m losing his pulse,” the resident shouted.

  I sprung into action. “I want four units running of rapid infuser five minutes ago!” I told him and watched as they slammed through the steel doors.

  Scrubbed up and gowned, I stormed into the room and took control of the patient. Checking his stats, a cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The signs and symptoms of a hemothorax were all right in front of me. His blood pressure was low, he was experiencing tachycardia, and his skin was both cool and clammy. “Chest X-ray, stat,” I ordered.

  This man was in critical condition, and we had to work fast.

  The team gathered around, clicking into action.

  As soon as I saw the X-ray, I knew exactly what we were dealing with. “Send off for a CBC, a chem-20, and grab all the O-neg you can find!” I told the team who surrounded me.

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Hang in there, Peter,” I whispered.

  The resident slammed another sedative into the IV. “Massive hemothorax,” he told me without question.

  I nodded. He saw exactly what I saw. This kid was good.

  I cleared my mind and focused on the patient. Not who he was or why he was with my drug-addicted mother, but instead, on the patient in need of care.

  By inserting a large-bore needle into the space of the affected side, I was allowing air to escape and hopefully relieving the pressure. Needle decompression was standard procedure in cases like this.

  “Suction please,” I dictated as I pulled the needle out.

  “Pulse is dropping,” the resident shouted grabbing for the paddles.

  “Come on, Peter,” I whispered as I moved aside.

  “Clear! Clear! Clear!” the resident called.

  “I got a pulse!” the nurse shouted.

  “Yes! You are not going to die, Peter. Do you hear me? You are not going to die,” I told the patient on the table even though he could not hear me.

  With the rapid accumulation of blood in his chest, I knew I had to do more than allow for air passage. I had to drain it. “Prepare to assist with the immediate placement of a 36–40F chest tube and establish two large-bore antecubital IV lines for aggressive fluid resuscitation, blood transfusion, and auto-transfusion. Now!” I shouted out to the team.

  Time was short. His breathing was impaired. While I worked, I couldn’t help but think of Monica. She’d fucked up my life. I blamed her for my father’s death almost as much as I blamed myself. The woman was poison. What the hell was Peter doing with her?

  “He’s stable,” the resident called out.

  I blew out a breath and performed a secondary survey, reassessing and looking for other life-threatening injuries, of which there were none.

  Thank fuck.

  While the team took care of readying the patient for the holding room in Trauma One, it was time for me to collect any information about the patient and incident that I could, and I was dreading it.

  In addition to circumstances directly related to the injury, I had to find out as much as possible about the patient’s medical history, medications, when he last ate, and if he consumed any alcohol or did any recreational drugs.

  And the woman I had to solicit this information from was Monica.

  Fuck me.

  Thinking about what I had to do, but not at all looking forward to having to do it, I stood in the doorway unable to move and watched as the nurses removed all of Peter’s clothing.

  Since penetrating chest injuries usually involved violence, it was important to collect evidence according to hospital policy. They had to place each piece of clothing in a separate paper bag.

  As they cut away the sides of the sports coat he was wearing, an oddly tri-folded off-white piece of paper fell to the ground.

  It caught my attention immediately, and I jetted toward it. Picking it up, all I could do was stare as I unfolded it and read the same words I’d read over and over for so many years.

  I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault.

  Pain.

  It struck like a piercing wave of old hurt. My heart started to pound, and my breath came too quickly as I stared stonily at the piece of paper. I had seen this very same thing every year for fourteen years. Last year I hadn’t received one though, so I thought they had stopped.

  My lips twisted. Why did Peter have this?

  The man whose life I’d just saved had been sending them.

  Why?

  The nurse looked at me before continuing what she was doing. I didn’t return the piece of paper but instead stared at Peter.

  What the fuck?

  Why?

  He wasn’t going to answer me of course, but I knew who would.

  Storming through the trauma wing, I marched into the ER and looked on the board. I found her name and was whipping back the curtain and looking at the woman who I knew to be my mother without so much as a thought about what I was doing.

  My nape prickled from the resemblance and I slowed my pace, forcing myself to remember she might look like the woman who raised me, but she was nothing like that woman on the inside.

  Lying in the hospital bed, looking so frail and thin, Monica was a replica of Mimi only so much younger she shouldn’t have been. “Jake?” she said softly.

  Desolation settled over me as I
held the paper high. “What the fuck kind of sick game have you and Peter been playing?”

  Her eyes widened in shock. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I stared at her coldly as I closed the distance between us and tossed the paper onto her lap. “This! Why was it in Peter’s pocket?”

  Color rose in her cheeks. “Jake, I don’t know.”

  Anger surged through my veins. “You owe me the truth!”

  “I don’t know why,” she cried. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  Liar.

  I took a deep breath. “Why were the two of you together?”

  Monica sat up but said nothing.

  “Why?” I shouted.

  She shifted on the bed, and the blanket fell from her body. When it did, I saw the track lines on her arms.

  This woman was severely broken.

  What had she been doing all these years?

  Monica let out a forlorn-sounding sigh. “He came to help me.”

  “Help you how?” I bit out.

  She looked away. “I was doing so good, but then I relapsed after Mimi refused to let me come see her before she died. Peter found out and flew to New York to get me back on track.”

  Bleakly, I thought back to any time Peter might have mentioned my mother and recalled none. “Why would he do that? And how does Peter know anything about your life?”

  All the blood drained from her face. “He’s been trying to help me get sober and stay that way for the past fifteen years.”

  My eyes flickered over her. I wanted to call her a liar. And out loud this time. But I couldn’t. The truth was they were together when he was attacked, and they were leaving a Narcotic’s Anonymous meeting, so some of what she was saying had to be true. “Why did he care if you were high or drunk or sober? What did it matter to him?”

  Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Because, Jake, he feels guilty and he says it helps him cope with that guilt.”

  I stared at her. “What exactly does he have to feel guilty about?”

  “He’s the reason your father was working that day. The reason your father didn’t come to Connecticut to see you and Rory.”

  If the rug could ever actually be pulled out from under you, it was just done to me. I felt unsteady on my feet, and without thinking, I sat on the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about? I’m the one who texted Dad and told him not to come.”

  She reached for my hand. “No, baby, your father had called me that morning and told me he’d been called into work and wasn’t going to be able to make it. I told you about his call that morning.”

  I shook my head vehemently.

  “Yes, I did. I came downstairs, and you were in the kitchen.”

  My mind went whirling back to that morning.

  I heard the stumbling on the stairs. Monica had come down looking peaked and a mess. She rushed to the sink where she vomited. Looking over at me, she said something I couldn’t understand.

  I didn’t care enough to ask her to repeat it. “I can get us both to school,” I barked, and walked away, assuming she was apologizing again for her bad behavior.

  I blinked the memory away and felt a chill so deep it shook my body. He hadn’t come to Connecticut, that part was true, but not because of me, rather because he had to work.

  I wasn’t the reason my father had died.

  The revelation should have lifted a mountain off my shoulders, but the reality was my father had still died on that tragic day, and the sadness of his death far outweighed the reason he had been in the city.

  This city.

  And chances were good, he’d have been right where he was no matter what he’d been doing because that was the kind of man he was.

  That too hit me like a brick wall.

  “You look so much like your father, Jake,” my mother said. “He’d be so proud of you.”

  I looked at her with disgust. “How would you know?”

  Her voice was weak, sad. “Because I know. I know.”

  “You don’t. You never cared about him or me.”

  “That’s not true. I wanted to see you, Jake. I did. But I had to get better. And I’ve been trying ever since you left.”

  I laughed and took hold of her arm. “Yeah, you’ve been trying really hard.”

  Tears spilled from her eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand, but every day since Mimi took you and Rory from me, I have wanted to get better and get you both back.”

  “It’s been sixteen years,” I gritted out. “It’s a little late now, don’t you think?”

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Jake. I’m so sorry.”

  I shook out of her hold and stood up. “I used to hate you, Monica, but now I only feel sorry for you.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I know, baby, I know. But someday, Jake, I will get better.”

  “Yeah, look me up when you do,” I said, choking on the words.

  “I will, Jake, just you wait and see. And when I do, I will fight for your love.”

  Every bone in my body wanted to reach out and help this woman. Looking at her though, I finally understood what Mimi had been through. The never-ending road. The constant disappointment. The helplessness of wanting to help someone who didn’t really want help. Like Mimi, I knew enabling Monica would only make her weaker. Unlike Mimi, I wasn’t going to spend my whole life doing it. And I guess, unlike Peter as well.

  Dr. Peter Wright blamed himself for my father’s death. The man had taken me under his wing, been a mentor, tried to keep me away from a job he knew I was pursuing out of my own guilt, and the reason behind it all had been guilt.

  I should have been angry, but I wasn’t. I got guilt. I knew what it felt like, tasted like, smelled like.

  I’d lived it.

  I understood it.

  How it ate you up and controlled your life.

  I was done with that. I was done with it. And Peter needed to be, too.

  The thing was . . . like I said, my father was who he was, and he would have been there that day no matter what. He was a hero, who probably helped save more lives than I would ever know. He was my hero.

  Shifting my gaze from Monica’s to the note, I turned and headed out of the room. I had to make sure Peter knew I didn’t blame him.

  “Jake,” Monica called. I looked over my shoulder. “I will get better.”

  “I hope so,” I told her sincerely. And as I left the ER, I felt like a brick had been lifted off my shoulders. Lighter. Free. A new version of myself.

  In the doctor’s lounge, I slumped down and took my head in my hands. I’d wanted to be like my father since the day he died. Yet, the truth was, I didn’t have to follow in his footsteps to be a good man. I didn’t have to be him to make sure I wasn’t like her. I just had to be me.

  My whole life I’d run from the shadows that hung over me. Blaming myself for my father’s death. Worried I was like her. Running away from building a life that I only believed would end in destruction, like hers.

  Now, having come face-to-face with Monica after all these years, I knew I wasn’t anything like her. I wasn’t her.

  The truth was I was who I was, and it wasn’t my father or my mother.

  I was just me.

  A man who wanted to help people.

  A man who knew right from wrong.

  A man who, whether I wanted to or not, loved a woman he’d left behind. Loved. Yes, I might not have been looking for it, but it found me.

  And maybe it was time to stop running away from my past and run toward the future.

  Maybe it was time to do what Mimi had told me I had the strength to do just days before she died . . . and show Juliette the way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Best Thing Since Sliced Bread

  JULES

  I HAD COME HERE EVERY year for the past fifteen years.

  The 9/11 Memorial Plaza was a tribute to the past and a place of hope for the future. The eight-acre park was a sanctuary where terror once rei
gned down. Set within the footprints of the original Twin Towers sits one of the largest manmade waterfalls in the United States.

  The name of every person who perished in the attack was stencil-cut into parapets around the pools. In the evening, light shines up through the voids of each letter of a name.

  It was special.

  It was with purpose.

  It was heart-wrenching and soul-soothing.

  There was a fleeting sadness in my gaze as I looked toward the flags that were lowered at half-staff.

  My eyelids hung heavy when at 8:46 the first of the bells rang. I stopped where I was and bowed my head in silence.

  I would always remember. Everyone would always remember. The darkness that had come and the fight to find the light guaranteed that.

  I shivered under the damp gray sky and drew my coat tighter around myself as I walked. I knew where I was going. I hadn’t passed the names of Josh and Rachael Easton on accident. I would run my fingers over their names, over and over, as I had for years, but first I wanted to find another name.

  I found his name quickly and stared at it for a long while. Dr. Conrad Kissinger, a hero who died trying to save the lives of those inside. Maybe even those of my parents. I would never know this, of course.

  Hot tears pricked my eyelids, and I swallowed them back. Fiercely determined to be strong, I ran my fingers over the letters of his name and said a prayer for him.

  I wasn’t religious.

  I didn’t pray often.

  But coming here, it seemed like the right thing to do.

  When the second bell rang, I knew it was time to move on. I could stand in one spot all day and contemplate the senselessness of the terrorism and the loss of all the lives, but I knew it would never bring my family back to me.

  As much as I was a 9/11 kid, I had never allowed it to label me. Until Jake, I had kept my sadness inside, but now I knew it was okay to let it out.

  It was okay to be sad.

  That didn’t make me weak.

  It might actually even make me stronger.

  A few days ago I had received a call from another 9/11 kid who was putting together a documentary about the children who lost parents on that day. Up until now, I had shied away from any involvement to do with the status that was forced upon me. Yet this time, I said yes. I would participate. I would tell my story. It was time to share my grief with those who felt what I felt.