The Man I Love

by Suanne Laqueur

  Joe indicated the blood-smeared T-shirt. “Any of that yours?”

  Erik nearly replied it was all his daughter’s blood, but quickly nipped the words and shook his head. “Where’s Daisy?”

  “Still in surgery. Will is in recovery. The doctor is talking to Lucky.”

  On the other side of the waiting room, Erik saw Lucky sitting with a doctor in green surgical scrubs. A few seats away sat a familiar, suited figure. Detective Khoury raised a hand in acknowledgment. Erik raised his back.

  “Who’s he?” Joe asked.

  “A cop. A detective, I mean.”

  “Have you talked to police yet?”

  “Yeah,” Erik said, a hand to his now throbbing head. He was insanely thirsty. And the thought of a cigarette leaped unexpectedly into his mind. He was a careless, clumsy social smoker but right now, a slow, deliberate drag into his throat and lungs and the bracing rush of nicotine would be perfect. He wanted it.

  “Do you need a lawyer?”

  “Joseph,” Francine said.

  Erik blinked, confused. “No. I’m a witness.”

  Francine spoke sharply to her husband in French. Joe didn’t look at her but his face softened and now both hands touched Erik’s arms and shoulders. A warm palm on his face and a tug on his ear. A father’s touch.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Erique?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You poor thing,” Francine said, her voice cracking. Her arms around Erik again. Francine was holding him now, holding him like a mother, but she was crying. Was she mother or child? Erik struggled to think straight. He needed a drink badly.

  “Where’s David?” he asked.

  “I sent him down the street to the Sheraton,” Joe said. “We need a room tonight. I told him to get two rooms and whoever needs to stay can stay. Franci, chère, come here. You can’t keep crying on the boy and he’s about to collapse. Cry on me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Francine said, wiping her eyes. “Where is your mother, Erique?”

  “Florida. She’s coming tomorrow morning. I need to get some water. Do you want anything?”

  “No, no. You go.”

  Erik hesitated, nearly asked Joe for a cigarette, knowing he’d have them. But he didn’t want to smell like smoke later when he saw Daisy.

  If they let him see her.

  They better let him see her.

  He found a bank of vending machines and got himself a Coke. Downing half of it in a few greedy swallows, he was mildly amazed his wallet was in one pocket, and his keys in another. Bits and pieces of an ordinary life. Clearly he’d gotten up this morning and put things in his pockets, but the morning was forgotten. Yesterday eluded his grasp as well, along with the previous week. Time rewound to James stepping onto the stage and no further.

  James.

  Erik reached back in his pocket. The flattened penny slid coolly against his fingers, the edges both sharp and soft. He took it out. Looked at it. In the glow of the vending machine light the flattened metal looked dull and morose. It seemed to give off a shamed vibe. As if it didn’t want to be looked at. Erik put it away again.

  In the waiting room, Lucky was sitting with the Biancos.

  “How’s Will?” Erik asked.

  “The shot in the side was clean. In and out. Cracked a rib but no internal organs hit.”

  “What about his hand?”

  “He’s lost two fingers, pinkie and ring. Middle finger is fifty-fifty, they have to watch it. Index should be all right. Massive soft tissue damage to his palm. The tendons are a mess. I don’t know about the carpal ligament but all the bones in his wrist are intact, thank God. Surgeon says he did great.” Lucky’s voice fell apart. She let out a tremendous breath and seemed to deflate under the drape of Erik’s arm. She sniffed hard and Francine automatically passed her a tissue.

  “Will they let you see him?” Erik asked.

  “Detective Khoury is in there now,” she said, pressing the tissue to her eyes.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bianco?”

  The party turned as one to the surgeon who had appeared in the waiting room. His scrubs were navy blue and he wore a patterned skull cap. Joe stood up.

  The doctor came closer. “You are Margaret’s father?”

  Margaret? Erik thought, startled. Margaret is James’s sister.

  “I am Joseph Bianco, Marguerite is my daughter. This is my wife. This—” he touched Erik’s shoulder. “—is my son and the young lady is my daughter’s roommate. But she is family.”

  “I’m Dr. Akhil Jinani. I’m a vascular surgeon and I operated on your daughter this evening.” He and Joe shook hands. “Please, sit down.”

  Erik stared at the doctor. He was Indian. Or perhaps Arab. Dark-skinned and a bit of black hair threaded with silver peeking beneath his cap. Yet his features were young, almost pretty. A boy’s face in an older man’s body.

  “Marguerite is resting and doing fine,” Dr. Jinani said, the words brisk and tight within the lilting accent. “And they are moving her from recovery into the ICU. She is not going to die, Mrs. Bianco. And right now there’s nothing to indicate we will lose the leg.”

  He paused to let them all digest and for Francine to get another tissue. Erik was still stupidly struggling to grasp Daisy sharing a name with James’s sister.

  “I will try to make this as simple as possible,” the doctor said. “In surgery tonight we explored the gunshot wound and found the damaged femoral artery. We were able to stop the bleeding and I placed a graft to bypass the injured section and establish flow distally. In other words, the pulses behind her knee and the top of her foot were restored, and the leg began to warm up.”

  “Which is good,” Francine said.

  “All good signs, yes. I am optimistic she will recover fully and retain the use of her leg.”

  Another pause then, as the question passed unasked around the circle of people. To ask if she would dance again seemed trivial when set against the relief of her being alive and all right. But this was Daisy.

  Dr. Jinani looked around his audience carefully. “I briefly heard what happened at the university,” he said. “On the news. And naturally we had to cut her out of tights and toe shoes. I assume she is an accomplished dancer?”

  They nodded as one. Francine’s eyes closed and she held the ball of tissues tight to her lips. Erik thought about the purple leotard with the criss-cross straps. It was Daisy’s favorite. Gone. Dropped ripped and bloodied on the emergency room floor. Most likely thrown away by now.

  “Mrs. Bianco,” the surgeon said. “It would be foolish of me to make promises about her future in dance right now. But let me say being a dancer was on Marguerite’s side today. She’s in phenomenal physical shape. I was somewhat amazed. Despite the shock and blood loss, her heart rate was steady all through surgery. She required no transfusions. And her blood pressure is quite satisfactory right now. As is the blood flow to the lower leg. Circulation is our priority and what we must monitor tonight. We can only go as far as we can see.”

  “Of course,” Francine said, sniffing and blinking rapidly. “Of course. She’s alive. Nothing else matters.”

  “Does she have any other injuries?” Joe asked.

  “Only minor ones, sir. An incomplete fracture of the left fibula bone. That’s nothing—the tibia is what bears the weight, the fib just gives backup. I doubt it would need to be pinned. Swelling of the left ankle may indicate some ligament damage. She will have a full orthopedic assessment tomorrow. As I said, the vascular issues must take priority. It does no good to set a broken leg if we cannot get blood to it.”

  “Of course.”

  “But if you need an orthopedic surgeon, I recommend Dr. Bonanto at the Kendall Center. For this kind of case, he’s the one you want.”

  “I’ll get him,” Joe said.

  Dr. Jinani looked at Erik then, taking in his weary and bloodied appearance. “Were you there when it happened? Are you all right?”

  Erik nodded.

 
The doctor nodded as well and his expression was both sympathetic and ironic—a corner of his mouth twitched as if he were trying not to smile too broadly. “Would you like to see your sister now?”

  Erik exhaled soft laughter. Busted. Yet grateful. “I would,” he said. “Let my mother go first though.”

  Francine made to stand up but Joe set his hand on her knees, stilling her. He looked at Erik. “You go on in.”

  “No,” Erik said. “No, you go.”

  Joe smiled then, raising a finger. “You go now, son.”

  Erik went. The nurse got him a gown and she walked him to Daisy’s room. “Is she awake?”

  “She was awake in recovery but then we started her on morphine for pain and she’s dropped off again. The best thing she can do is sleep right now.” The nurse stopped at the last door on the corridor and paused, her hand on the knob. “All right?” she said.

  Erik drew in a breath. “All right.”

  He went in.

  “Isn’t she cold?” It was the first thing he thought. “She’s always cold.”

  “She’s fine,” the nurse said, with a reassuring smile. “She doesn’t feel cold.”

  They had her in an over-sized hospital johnnie, white with little blue flowers. Emerging from the short sleeves, her arms looked fragile, bony, like a starving child’s. A flimsy blue sheet was tucked around her waist and her right leg. Her left leg was exposed, the thigh swathed in gauze, the calf and foot stabilized between two long foam planks. IV lines in one arm, a blood pressure cuff on the other, along with a pulse monitor clipped to her index finger. A tube ran under her nose, delivering oxygen.

  The nurse moved aside a rolling tray with some kind of monitor. “Go ahead, you can get close.”

  Gingerly, Erik moved in. He felt the slightest misstep—a tube jiggled, a machine jostled, an inadvertent knock against the bed—might kill her. He curled his fingers around her hand, drew it into his palm, squeezed it. His other hand hovered above her forehead. He glanced at the nurse, who nodded. “You can touch her, it’s all right. Talk to her.” She stepped out of the room.

  Erik laid his hand flat on Daisy’s forehead. Her skin was cool and dry. Miraculously her hair was still up in its ballet bun, although falling loose, toppled slightly sideways now. He bent lower, brushed his lips along her hairline, inhaling for just a hint of her perfume. A trace of sugar-soap scent would have been enough to soothe him. But her skin smelled sharply of alcohol, and dully of sweat, and another underlying odor, plastic and manufactured, like adhesive tape or latex.

  Erik carefully set his cheek on her head, not allowing any weight to press on her, but letting her feel his skin. He closed his eyes. He waited to weep, but no tears came. Nothing but this numb shock, and an all-encompassing, pervasive sadness with no outlet.

  Talk to her, the nurse had said, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Not when she was like this, shot down, ripped open, broken. Not even smelling like herself.

  “I’m here,” he whispered, moving his cheek over her brow, letting her feel him, breathe in his presence. “I’m here, Dais. I love you.”

  She made a small sound—a single, feathery hum in her throat. The fingers in his fluttered, then squeezed weakly. She moved her head in the direction of his voice, her shoulders twisting, turning into him. She put her nose against his neck. Inhaled. Again the little sound in her throat. And she was still.

  Erik put his hand on her face, fingertips sliding into her hair.

  He didn’t pat or caress her. It would make her crazy right now. She wouldn’t be able to think.

  He rested his head on hers and held her still.

  Whisper Together

  Detective Khoury emerged from Will’s room chuckling, saying Will was too zonked out on morphine for any kind of conversation. Khoury would be back in the morning. Lucky was allowed in then, and Erik could go too, if he kept it brief.

  Much as Daisy had, Will turned his head and leaned into Lucky’s neck, inhaling with a palpable relief. Erik found himself smiling at the primitive impulse. As if a sedated person were robbed of all senses except smell. They hadn’t the strength to open eyes or reach out. They were merely looking for the soothing scent of a loved one.

  Erik leaned and rested his face close to Will’s, letting him sense his presence. Will’s head turned. The eyes fluttered and managed to open. They rolled a little drunkenly, focused a couple seconds on Erik, then the lids dropped again.

  “Whazup, asshole,” Will whispered thickly. His mouth curved up a little. He looked quite pleased with himself. Then his features melted into neutrality and he was asleep again.

  It was eight o’clock then, and the ICU’s visiting hours ended, although family would be allowed a single hour later, from ten to eleven. Erik, Lucky and the Biancos left the hospital and went to the nearby Sheraton where David had been quite busy.

  Erik never knew if David charmed someone’s pants off or if it was simply an act of benevolence on the part of the hotel. But management upgraded them to the presidential suite, with its three bedrooms and three baths and every amenity they could possibly need. David himself had driven back to Lancaster and gathered clean clothes for Erik and Lucky.

  “You go digging through my underwear drawer, Alto?” Lucky asked.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” he said. “I know you—you’ll be locking Will’s door before they get the IV out of him. I figured you’d want your nice panties.”

  Lucky went to swat his arm, but the swat became a caress and she kissed his face tenderly. “You’re a prince, Dave.”

  He was a prince. Erik barely recognized his gentle kindness. David, always so moody and difficult, was here for him, a beacon in the fog, beaming a purposeful, dependable light.

  Erik got into the shower, turning it as hot as he could stand. More blood swirled in the water around his feet. He used the entire little bottle of shampoo and wore the soap down to a sliver.

  A brisk knock on the door and David’s voice floated over the curtain.

  “You want tea?”

  “Yeah. Two b—”

  “Two bags and milk. Jesus, Fish, I know how you take your fucking tea.” The door slammed. Erik shook his head and had to smile. When he finally emerged, pink and dripping, the tea was on the vanity and the bloody clothes taken away. Erik didn’t know where—he never saw them again. He dressed in the clothes David had brought. He retrieved his wallet and keys and other effects from the side table, then he picked up the penny. Stared at it a long time.

  He did not put it in his pocket. He left it.

  They sat at the table in the suite’s living room and ate room service. Nobody made much conversation. Erik had reached a strange mental tipping point where he went utterly numb, nearly on the verge of indifference. He found himself thinking about basketball. Big game tonight. With Magic Johnson retired and Doc Rivers flopping, could the Lakers beat the Clippers and will themselves into the playoffs? Erik glanced over at the television. It was turned on to the news, with the sound muted. Would it be heartless of him to switch to the game? Probably.

  He felt oddly and inappropriately bored.

  The phone rang.

  “I can’t get up,” Francine said, sighing. “I’m so tired.”

  As if her words were a signal, Erik felt leaden then. Bed beckoned enticingly. His head longed for a pile of pillows with smooth, freshly-laundered cases. His mouth actually watered at the thought of lying down.

  Stooped and stiff, Joe trudged to the phone and answered.

  “Eat, darling,” Francine said to Lucky. “Just a little more.”

  Lucky picked up her grilled cheese and took a grudging bite.

  Joe turned around, speaking in French, his voice raised in alarm. The lethargy of the room split apart with a crackle. Francine stood up.

  “What?” Erik said.

  David had gone pale. “I think they’re taking her back into surgery.”

  Erik jumped up, bumping the table with his knee, making plates rattle and glasse
s slosh. “Joe, what happened?”

  Joe hung up the phone and looked at Lucky. “Reperfusion,” he said, as if accusing her of a crime.

  Lucky shook her head, eyes wide. “I don’t know what that is,” she said wildly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  Erik ran into the bedroom to grab his sneakers and jacket. About to dash out again, he stopped and looked at the penny. It lay on the bedside table where he had left it, orange and sinister under the lamplight. It glared at him.

  It didn’t like to be left.

  He put it in his pocket and followed the Biancos back to the hospital. There they learned reperfusion is when blood supply returns to tissue after a period of oxygen deprivation. Instead of restoring normal function, it brings on inflammation and cell damage. Dangerous pressure begins to build up.

  “Marguerite began to shows signs of distress and complain of severe pain in her lower leg,” said Dr. Jinani. “Despite the morphine drip.”

  They were in the family waiting area of the ICU, a smaller room within the unit.

  “We soon lost the distal pulses and took her immediately back into surgery. I feared she was developing acute compartment syndrome.”

  “Which means?” Francine said. “What is it? Could she die?”

  “No, Mrs. Bianco. She is out of danger but it was a serious emergency situation. In essence, her body was not rejecting the graft itself, but the oxygen the graft was bringing. We had to immediately relieve the pressure building up in the compartment of the leg—hence the name of the condition—or else blood would stop reaching her lower leg. And the tissue would begin to die. Then she could lose the limb.”

  “How did you stop it?” Joe said. “What did you do to her?”

  “Sir, it was necessary to perform a dual fasciotomy. We made incisions on the medial and lateral aspects of the lower leg and removed a small amount of fascia to relieve the pressure.”

  “How deep?” Erik said, feeling a little sick as he tried to picture this. “Are you cutting into her muscle? Will she be able to walk?”

  “No, the incision is just deep enough to relieve the pressure.”