by Amelia Wilde
I tiptoed up to kiss Brandon on the cheek. “It’s fine. Go to the hotel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll wait for you here—” he started to protest again, but I shook my head firmly.
“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 examined me for a moment, his eyebrows pushed together in concentration. Finally, he brushed his knuckles lightly over my cheek and kissed me lightly on the 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 left the 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.
“Nick?” I asked after the phone was answered. “It’s Skylar. Yeah, I’m at the hospital now. Is...you know...there tonight?”
Nick answered quickly, but I ignored his avalanche of warnings.
“All right, all right, all right,” I replied. “I get it. Just tell him I’ll be there Monday night. Tell him I’ll have whatever he wants.”
I pressed the end button and stepped out to the street to hail a cab. My stomach had flipped about four times during the call, and my hands were shaking. Even so, for the first time all night, I felt a sense that I could fix things, even if just a little.
31
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of pancakes. I squinted in the bright sunlight. A dust-speckled ray of light speared the dark interior through a crack in the blinds, landing directly on my face. I sat up and shoved my glasses over my nose.
A glance down at my alarm clock informed me that it was nine o’clock. I groaned. It was well past three by the time I’d finally managed to fall asleep last night. I pushed my blankets aside and slipped my feet into my slippers. My suitcase was still in the back of Brandon’s car, and everything I still had at the house was all remnants of high school. The Care Bear-covered pajama pants were a Christmas gag gift, my over-sized Snoopy t-shirt a souvenir from a family trip to Atlantic City. I shoved my head through a ratty green hoodie with a peeling Department of Sanitation logo across the front.
As I walked down to the main floor, the pancakes were even stronger, and I heard Bubbe’s laughter wafting up with it. Laughter? The last time I’d spoken with her, she’d been close to hysterical. When I crept into the house last night, she’d been asleep in her favorite armchair, the TV blaring with reruns of This Old House.
I entered the kitchen and found Brandon sitting at the table, long legs spread comfortably while he sipped coffee. He wore his usual jeans and a navy Henley, but still managed to look runway-ready—a far cry from my sweatshirt and ratty pajamas. He brightened visibly when he saw me in the doorway.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Brandon said with a show-stopping smile. “I was just about to sneak upstairs and drag you out of bed. Nice get-up, by the way.”
I narrowed my eyes, making him laugh, and shoved a hand through my uncombed hair.
“Whatever,” I mumbled. I trudged over to where Bubbe stood at the stove and laid my head on her small shoulder. “Morning, Bubbe. Is there hot water for tea?”
“It’ll be ready in a minute, bubbela. I started it when I heard you coming down.”
From far away, you wouldn’t have known she’d spent the last twenty-four hours worried sick about her son. But up close, the bags under her eyes were pronounced, and her normally impervious helmet of hair had multiple strands out of place. More noticeable was the absence of commentary about my appearance, noisy footsteps, or any other
improvements she felt I should make.
I kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Bubbe. You’re the best.”
I took a seat across from Brandon, who watched me curiously over his cup.
“When did you get here?” I asked quietly when he reached over to squeeze my hand. “I thought you were staying at a hotel.”
“I did. But when I didn’t hear from you last night, I got worried, so I came over first thing. Your grandmother was up and let me in.”
“He came over like a gentleman to check on your father and offer help,” Bubbe added as she flipped a pancake onto a plate already stacked with them. A skillet loaded with scrambled eggs sizzled as she stirred them around. “I don’t understand why you didn’t offer to let him stay here. We’re not animals, Skylar. We have a guest room.”
She turned around to look knowingly at Brandon, as if the sagging double bed shoved into the corner of a room mostly dedicated to storing Dad’s instruments demonstrated something critical about our wealth. It wouldn’t have taken her long to figure out that Brandon had money. Through the window, I could see David’s silhouette in the Mercedes. Even in his casual attire, Brandon looked like he had walked out of a fashion spread, and the white gold of his watchband gleamed, untarnished in the sunlight.
I shook my head. The last thing I needed was for Bubbe to get dollar signs in her eyes. I’d be getting engagement tips every day for the next month.
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Mrs. Crosby. I’m sure your guest room is a lot more comfortable than the stiff beds at the Waldorf,” Brandon said as he hid a smile behind the rim of his mug.
“Ooh, the Waldorf!”
Humming with approval, Bubbe brought over the plate of pancakes and eggs. I hopped up from my chair when the kettle on the stove began to whistle.
“Any word on Dad this morning?” I asked as I started the process of making my tea.
Bubbe took a seat and began serving everyone monstrous portions, starting with Brandon. “They said he’s awake and should be ready to get out of that place tomorrow. Are you going to visit today?”
I nodded as I sat down. Brandon slid a warm hand over my knee, but didn’t stop shoveling eggs into his mouth. Bubbe watched with satisfaction; the guy could really eat.
“Yes, I am,” I answered her. “He still hasn’t seen me. Plus, I also want to find out the official prognosis for his hand.”
“Oy, his poor hand,” Bubbe said as she clasped her own palm to her cheek. “Your poor father—I don’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t heal right, if he can’t play anymore. Music is my Daniel’s real joy, you see,” she informed Brandon, who nodded, mouth full.
“I think the bigger question is when he can get himself into some kind of therapy,” I said dryly.
Truthfully, the thought of Dad unable to play anymore cut me so deep I couldn’t yet bear to consider the idea. But right now, I was more concerned with his immediate circumstances.
“Therapy? For what?” Bubbe asked, eyes suddenly darting back to Brandon.
I sighed. I knew she would fight this; Bubbe was not the type who would ever want to believe her beloved son needed psychiatric help. She’d practically ignored it the first time around, when I’d been there to make sure he attended his sessions. This time, however, I’d need her on board in my absence.
“Bubbe, Dad’s sick,” I said gently, laying a hand on her small, wrinkled one. “He needs help.”
“Skylar, we have company,” she said, looking back at Brandon with a nervous smile.
Brandon glanced between us and swallowed his last bite of eggs. Then he stood up.
“I’m going to bring David some food,” he said with a sympathetic look at me.
He filled up a clean plate and ducked out before Bubbe could protest or even offer extra cutlery. I turned back to my grandmother, who was now uncharacteristically quiet.
“This stuff with Dad and Grandad,” I said, “it’s not their fault. It’s an addiction, Bubbe. And we need to help Dad before it kills him.”
A lone tear fell down my grandmother’s otherwise stalwart face. She swiped at it with a manicured finger. Several of her nails were uncharacteristically chipped, and a few even looked like they had been bitten down completely. She must have had as terrible a night as I’d had—maybe worse.
I took the hand and squeezed.
“I don’t…I can’t…what will people think?” she asked.
Her voice was so weak. I wanted to hug her and tell her it didn’t matter, that Dad would be fine no matter what. But the truth was, we didn’t know. Even after everything was healed, we didn’t know how deep he was in or what kind of psychological damage the possible loss of his hand—his livelihood—would be.
“Does it matter, Bubbe,” I said. “It will be better than if he’s found in the East River, don’t you think?”
She knew I was thinking of Grandad. It was maybe a dirty trick for me to suggest the same fate for her son, but we couldn’t afford to be ostriches with our heads in the sand. Dad needed help, and we needed to make sure he got it.
Bubbe sat there for a moment longer, wiping away a few more errant tears with one hand, gripping mine with the other. Then, at last, she looked straight at me, dark-brown eyes clear and focused.
“You say these doctors, this therapy, it will help him? Better than last time?”
I cocked my head in sympathy. “It’s better than nothing, right?”
She considered my words for a moment more, then nodded. “All right, then. You say he needs to go? I’ll make sure he goes. That’s that.”
I patted her on the shoulder, but Bubbe waved my hand away, instead picking up her fork and taking a bite of her breakfast with finality. That was the thing about Bubbe—once her decisions were made, there was no more room for talking. Just doing.
After breakfast, Brandon snuck upstairs to help me get dressed while Bubbe watched her morning programs. He had to duck to enter the small doorway, but once inside, he took a comfortable seat on my unmade bed and looked around curiously.
“You’re like Cinderella,” he commented. “Living in the attic.”
I looked at the exposed rafters and shrugged. “I moved up here when I was a kid. Privacy.”
“I can imagine needing that with your grandmother.”
Brandon kicked off his shoes, watching with appreciation as I changed. Just as I was starting to pull on my jeans, my arm was seized, and I found myself pulled onto the bed atop Brandon’s large, warm body.
“Come here,” he said softly as he wrapped me close and tucked my head into his chest.
With his touch, I felt the tension in my body lessen as I inhaled his clean, comforting scent. One of his hands splayed over my naked back while the other brushed stray hairs out of my face. After a moment, he tipped my head up so he could see me clearly.
“How are you doing?” he asked softly. “I was worried about you last night.”
I gulped. “I’m sorry. I just…I should have let you know I was on my way. I felt so overwhelmed; I forgot until I got home.”
I had ended up sending a quick text before I’d gone to sleep, but turned off my phone before receiving his reply. I hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone.
Brandon just kissed me softly on the forehead and continued to stroke my hair. His movements were gentle, clearly without any ulterior motive even though I was topless. And it should have been exactly what I wanted after the previous harrowing night.
But instead, the mild restlessness bloomed. The rhythmic swell of his chest was less comforting and more tempting. My hands, as if of their own accord, found the hem of his shirt and slid beneath it to find his ridged obliques. I outlined his muscles, humming with pleasure while I pressed my face into his neck, eager to inhale even more of him. When my mouth opened against his pulse, Brandon sucked in a sharp breath, the hand at my back tensed.
“Skylar,” he rumbled. His vocal cords vibrated deliciously against my lips.
“What?” I mumbled aga
inst his stubble.
My tongue touched his skin. Brandon shivered.
“You…erg…you don’t need to do this…ah!” He jumped slightly as my lips sucked more determinedly at his jaw. “I just mean…that’s not what I came up here for.”
I sat up.
“Babe?” I asked. I traced one finger down his chest and toyed with the three buttons that closed his Henley.
Brandon watched me, his eyes wide and unsure. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want to be sad right now,” I stated as I unfastened the top button and moved to the second. “Right now, I just want to be with you. So, can we just mess around and pretend for a few minutes like I don’t have a shit day ahead of me?”
I finished with the third button and pulled his collar open so I could slide my hand under the waffled fabric. The hand on my back tightened just a bit more. I leaned in to kiss him gently on either side of his mouth. Brandon remained stock-still.
“Please?” I asked, my mouth hovering just over his. “Can you help me?”
The word seemed to bring him out of whatever philosophical argument he’d been having with himself. His other hand threaded its fingers roughly through my messy locks and pulled me down, showing me just how thoroughly he could help with a vigorous kiss.
“I feel like I’m just a kid again, sneaking into the neighbor girl’s bedroom so we could neck,” he said a few moments later.
I splayed over his body, eager to feel as much of him as possible beneath me. “Did you do that with a lot of neighbor girls?” I could just imagine Brandon, tall and handsome, if a little gawky, flashing his pearly whites for an invitation into a girl’s bedroom. “Take this off.”
I yanked at the hem of his Henley, and he allowed me to pull it over his head.
“Maybe a few,” he said after another thorough kiss. “What about you? Any boys climb in through the attic window?”
I smiled “Not really. Tommy Leibowitz tried once, but he broke the branch of the oak tree. No one else could get in after that.”