by Tracy Brogan
The question tore at him because he had no answer, and he should. He should have learned something from the last accident, but all he’d learned was how fragile a body could be.
“We just wait,” he said.
“But there’s blood,” she whispered.
“He’s tough, Libby,” he said. It was as much comfort as he dared to offer.
The sirens wailed minutes later, though it felt like decades.
“Go flag them down. I’ll wait here.”
She hesitated.
“Go,” he said again.
He heard the paramedics, and Libby’s strident answers, and seconds later they were in the stairwell, their shirts crisp and white, their actions efficient.
“We’re going to need some room, sir,” one of them said. “Could you wait downstairs, please?” Tom patted Peter’s shoulder and moved from the stairs into the ice-cream parlor to stand next to Libby. She was silent, her fist pressed against her mouth. He knew her heart was in overdrive with worry. There was nothing he could do about it, but when her father yelled in pain as they repositioned his leg, Tom wrapped his useless arms around her shoulders and held her tight.
At last they had Peter moved to a backboard, and then the metal gurney. Libby rushed to the stretcher once they’d maneuvered it into the main room, and Tom followed.
“Dad?” She leaned over. Peter’s eyes were glassy when he turned to her.
“I didn’t get to ring the bell,” he said, and then his eyes drifted to a close once more.
“Can I ride with him?” she asked as a dark-haired paramedic carrying a red medical bag stepped around them.
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. But we’ll take good care of him. He’s headed to Monroe General.”
“I’ll take you,” Tom said, watching them slam shut the ambulance door.
She looked at him, still no tears in those dark blue eyes. Just a depth of concern he understood completely.
“You don’t have to. I can drive my dad’s car.”
“I don’t think so. Get in the truck.”
Outside, she grabbed her purse and a jacket from her dad’s car. Then she went back to get Peter’s jacket, too, not really grasping that he wouldn’t need it at the hospital. Like locking the door when a tornado is coming.
She climbed into the truck and buckled in. A wavering breath escaped. He wanted to say something, anything that might help. But he didn’t know anything.
“I should call my mom. Shouldn’t I?” She looked at him with uncharacteristic uncertainty, as if there were a protocol for this type of situation.
“You dial. I’ll talk to her, okay?”
She didn’t argue, just pulled her phone from her purse with trembling hands. She pressed a few buttons and handed it to him. “It’s ringing.”
“Hello?” Beverly Hamilton’s voice was chipper, thinking it was her daughter calling. He was about to ruin that.
“Beverly, it’s Tom Murphy. I’ve got Libby’s phone.”
“Oh, hello, Tom.” She sounded curious, but still not worried.
“Listen, Peter took a little tumble at the ice-cream parlor. I’m afraid he may have broken something.”
“Not something of yours, I hope.” She laughed, and he wondered if his tactic of downplaying the seriousness would backfire.
“No, but maybe his leg.”
“His leg? Are you certain?” Worry seeped into her voice.
He thought of how Peter’s foot had been in completely the wrong place. “Yes, ma’am. Pretty sure. He’s on his way to Monroe General in an ambulance, and I’ve got Libby with me. We’re heading there now.”
“An ambulance? Monroe General? Oh. Oh, my goodness, we just left there with Ginny. Let me get her home, but then Nana and I will come right back.”
“Beverly,” he said, trying to sound calm but insistent, “you should hurry a little bit, okay?”
“Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Tom disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Libby. She was staring at him, forehead furrowed in a frown.
“A little tumble? My dad fell halfway down the steps of a bell tower.” Her voice broke, his composure nearly breaking with it.
“You want your mother knowing that when she’s trying to drive? She’ll find out more at the hospital.”
She turned back to the front, staring. “I guess.” Her breathing came in short puffs. After another minute she whispered, “Tom. Can you pull over? I think I need to throw up.”
CHAPTER thirteen
For the second time that week, Libby found herself surrounded by members of her family in a waiting room at the local hospital, but this time was very different. Her mother had arrived with Nana nearly half an hour after she and Tom had gotten there. Marti and Dante joined them shortly after that.
“You again?” Libby overheard Dante ask Tom as he settled into a beige plastic chair next to him.
Tom nodded slowly. “This family is like quicksand, kid. Get out while you still can.”
Dante drank from a can of Red Bull. “Nah, I’m already in. Marti’s worth it.”
His simple declaration threatened to nudge out the tears loitering in Libby’s eyes. Maybe it was just the stress of the day that made her irrationally sentimental, but Libby suddenly had an overwhelming sense that Dante was indeed the one for Marti.
But while Dante was there of his own choosing, Tom Murphy seemed to be struggling to get away. She didn’t want him to feel that way. She wasn’t a burden. She wasn’t a trap. If that’s how he felt, then maybe he really should go.
But she didn’t tell him that, because she wanted him to stay. And he didn’t leave. That had to mean something.
It was Tom who had told the others all the details of the fall, downplaying the more gruesome aspects while being honest about how badly her dad was injured. It was Tom who helped her climb back into the truck after she’d puked up her breakfast on the side of the road. And it was Tom who’d asked a burly nurse for a toothbrush when they got to the hospital so Libby could freshen up.
On second thought, no wonder he wanted to get away.
“What’s your name again?” Nana asked Tom after they’d all been sitting there for what felt like ten hours but had really been less than two.
“That’s Tom, Nana,” Libby’s mother said.
“Oh, yes. My son, Peter, has been telling me all about you. He says you’re very smart. Are you very smart?”
Tom sat up straighter in his chair. “Not really, ma’am.”
“Yes, you are,” Libby said. She’d give voice to his skills, even if he wouldn’t. “Tom is very smart, Nana. He knows everything there is to know about restoring old buildings. You should see what he’s done at the ice-cream parlor. It was a disaster before he got there, but now it looks fantastic.”
“Your father told me it wasn’t in that bad of shape,” her mother said.
“Um…” Libby realized her mistake too late. “Honestly, Mom, it was a train wreck. We figured it was best to keep that to ourselves until we had a chance to get some work done. Thank goodness for Tom, though.”
His skin flushed. “I’ve restored lots of old buildings. This one looked worse on the surface than it turned out to be. Structurally it was still in good shape.” He paused before adding quietly, “Except for the bell tower.”
The conversation halted at that, and Tom stood abruptly and walked to the window in the waiting room, his back to them. His muscles bunched as he crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “I should have checked that.”
His misplaced guilt was a neon sign, frustrating Libby. He’d done nothing but rescue members of her family this week. Why couldn’t he see that?
He pulled a phone out of his pocket and walked into the hallway outside the waiting room to make a call.
Marti moved over to sit next to her. “How are you?” she whispered.
“Shitty. But better than Dad,” Libby whispered back. “You should have seen him on that staircase, Marti. It was awful.”<
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Marti’s green eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she clasped Libby’s hand. “I’m so grateful Tom was there.”
Pinpricks pierced all over her heart. “Me, too.”
“What’s up with you guys, anyway? Ginny told me you were with him the night she had the baby.”
Libby glanced up. She could see Tom pacing in the hallway, talking into his phone.
“It’s complicated,” Libby heard herself saying. She pulled her hand free of her sister’s.
“Because of his daughter?”
Libby nodded. “Because of lots of stuff.” His daughter. That car accident. Connie. Libby was competing with all kinds of ghosts.
Marti shook her head, making her hair sway. She had two long, skinny, white feathers woven in just behind her ear. “Please tell me it’s not because you’re still hung up on Seth.”
Libby scoffed at the question. “No, I’m not. Not even a little bit.”
For the first time, she knew she meant it. She hadn’t talked to Seth in ages, or even exchanged a text. She’d told him to ship those boxes of her stuff just so she wouldn’t have to deal with seeing him. The days had gone by, and she’d filled them with work and family and the talent show. And Tom.
Maybe he wasn’t ready for her, but she was most certainly ready for him.
He came back in the waiting room a few minutes later, tucking his phone into his pocket and looking just as exhausted as he had the other morning when they’d brought Ginny here, and Libby felt some guilt of her own. Her family was like quicksand. And poor Tom Murphy was masochistically helpful.
He sat down next to her, and Marti moved back over by Dante, leaving Tom and Libby a hint of privacy.
Tom had a stain on the front of his shirt, round and dark, and she realized it was blood. The vision of her father, bent and in distress, exploded in her mind. She didn’t know any details of Tom’s car accident, but it must have been even worse than this. And today would certainly dredge that up.
She leaned closer to him, wishing she could wind her arm through his, to hold his hand. But she didn’t. “I’m sorry,” she whispered instead.
He looked back at her, his eyes as dark as espresso and just as intense. “For what?”
She gave a little shrug. “For the stuff that makes you sad.”
A molasses-slow smile turned up the corners of his mouth, and Libby saw some of those walls start to come back down.
Another half hour passed before a pretty, dark-haired young woman in scrubs and a lab coat came through the double doors of the emergency department.
“Are you the Hamilton family?”
Libby’s pulse jumped to attention as everyone stood up and clustered around the doctor.
“I’m Beverly Hamilton,” Libby’s mother said, stepping in front of them all.
“I’m Dr. Hoover, Mrs. Hamilton. It’s good to meet you. First, let me say your husband is currently resting comfortably, and I believe he should make a full recovery. He appears to have struck his head quite hard. He had a one-inch laceration that we’ve stapled with no complications.”
“Stapled?” Dante said.
Marti wiped away a fresh tear.
The doctor smiled. “Stapling is standard procedure. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
Libby shuddered at that image anyway. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it sounded, but it still sounded pretty awful.
The doctor continued. “As I understand from what the paramedic told me, Mr. Hamilton fell from a chair and then down some stairs, and then was unconscious briefly, is that correct?”
Libby nodded. “Yes. We were with him.” She reached over and tugged the sleeve of Tom’s jacket, bringing him closer.
“Well, he’s been seen by our trauma team, and they plan to admit him for observation to evaluate his mental status. That’s standard whenever someone loses consciousness. Mr. Hamilton has demonstrated some amnesia for the event, which is also quite typical. He may never fully remember, which is common with a concussion.” The doctor’s phone chimed, and she pulled it from her pocket to glance at it.
Dante wrapped one arm around Marti and the other around Libby’s mother.
Looking back to Libby’s mother, the doctor continued. “We’ve completed a CT scan of his brain, and there doesn’t appear to be any serious injury that we can detect at this time. However, people respond to concussions in different ways, and it’s difficult to predict if he’ll have ongoing problems such as headaches or memory problems. This is something you’ll want to watch for. But there’s a very good chance he’ll suffer no lingering side effects.”
Libby slipped her hand into Tom’s. He squeezed it back. A tiny thing, but monumental just then.
“Now, regarding his right leg,” the doctor said. “He has a tibia and fibula fracture just above the ankle. The breaks are fairly clean, and I suspect he’ll regain full use of his leg, but he will need surgery. He’s been seen by our orthopedic team, his leg has been splinted, and they’re taking him to surgery. Despite his injuries, Mr. Hamilton seems to be in good spirits, although he’s slightly combative about the fact that he’ll be non-weight-bearing on that foot for six to eight weeks. He tells me he’s opening an ice-cream parlor, is that right?”
“Yes.” Libby spoke again, clearing the frog of emotion from her throat.
The doctor smiled. “And I got the impression from our conversation that he’s taking a very active role in the construction, yes?”
Libby nodded, but the doctor shook her head. “Not for a while on that. The surgeon will give you more specifics, but I can guarantee strenuous manual labor will be out of the question for the next several weeks.”
Libby nodded, not sure if she felt relief or despair. Thank goodness her father was all right—but this changed everything.
“Mrs. Hamilton, could you come back with me, please? We have some forms for you to fill out, and then you can see your husband before surgery. I’m afraid the rest of you will have to wait until he’s out of recovery. You may just want to come back tomorrow.”
Libby’s mother looked slightly dazed and uncertain.
“Go on with the doctor, Mom. We’ll wait for you out here,” Marti said.
“Can I see him? I’m his mother,” Nana said.
The doctor’s smile was practiced. “I’m sorry, ma’am. They’re holding the operating room for him, and we have a very full house tonight. There will only be time for one visitor. But we’ll take very good care of him.”
Libby’s mother turned to look at them. “Someone should take Nana home.”
“We’ve got it, Mom. Don’t worry. We’ll be here when you’re done with Daddy,” Marti said.
The doctor led their mother away while the rest of them exchanged glances of varying levels of concern and relief. Tom pulled his hand from Libby’s and slid it into his pocket.
“Why don’t you take Nana home, Libby?” Marti said. “Dante and I can stay and wait for Mom.”
“I don’t have my car.”
She heard Tom’s soft sigh from over her shoulder. “I can drive you.”
She turned around to face him. “Are you sure? Seems like you’ve done enough.”
His smile was tired but sweet. “It’s nothing. I’ll take you and your grandmother home.”
Getting Nana into Tom’s truck was no easier than it had been getting a drunken Ben into Ginny’s car, but at last they hoisted her up and in, and she now sat between Tom and Libby as they headed down the road.
“I haven’t been in a truck since I was a girl,” Nana said. “But it’s just as bouncy as I remember. And it smells the same. Now, young man, my son tells me you’re a widower. Is that so?”
Libby pressed her fingers against her temples. Her grandmother couldn’t remember anybody’s name or how to button a sweater, but this detail she had crystal clear. Libby tried to steal a glance at Tom without being too obvious, but Nana’s fluffy white head was in the way.
“Yes,” he answered, his hand seeming to grip the ste
ering wheel more tightly.
“That’s unfortunate. What happened to your wife?”
“Nana, please. That’s not what anyone wants to talk about right now.”
She should’ve just used her mother’s car and brought Nana home in that. But the truth was, she and Tom had some things to talk about, and she’d hoped to do that as soon as they were alone.
“She died in a car accident, Mrs. Hamilton. I was driving too fast, hit a slick spot in the road, and crashed into a tree.” His voice was neutral, as if he’d explained this a dozen different times and the words held no more emotion, but his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel and Libby saw a muscle twitch in his jaw.
“Oh, my. That’s very sad.” Nana reached down and double-checked her seat belt.
The muscle twitched again. “I don’t drive too fast now, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’d expect you to be extra-careful now that you’re seeing my granddaughter.”
“Nana, we’re not…” Libby took a breath. “We’re not seeing each other.” She waited for him to disagree, but she knew he wouldn’t. After all, they weren’t seeing each other. She didn’t know what they were doing. Maybe nothing.
“You’re not? Well, maybe you should let your mother know that, because she thinks you are.”
Libby turned toward the window, picturing Tom struggling in Hamilton family quicksand, his strong arms useless and waving madly.
“You’re not getting any younger, you know, Liberty,” Nana went on. “I had four children by the time I was your age. Whatever happened to that boy from Chicago? Sam? Simon?”
Libby considered rolling down the window and jumping out. Or maybe she could chuck her Nana out instead. That might be easier.
“The boy from Chicago is now in San Diego, and I didn’t want to move there.” She also hadn’t been invited, but that hardly mattered. Seth was old news.
Nana nodded. “Well, I can’t blame you for that. California is full of nuts. Still, I thought you’d be married by now.”
This day could not get worse. “Well, at least you have Marti’s wedding to look forward to.”
“Oh, don’t get me started on that. That young man of hers needs a haircut. And another thing…”