Tipping the Balance

by Koehler, Christopher

  Scared, he bit the bullet and drove to Drew’s house, but it was as dark as when he’d left it, newspapers littering the driveway. He left the papers stacked neatly by the front door behind a planter so it wouldn’t be quite so obvious that no one was apparently home.

  It was late the night before Thanksgiving, but Brad didn’t have a whole lot to be thankful for. Tomorrow promised to be an ordeal, a sullen meal and pretending to be a happy family, since Randall only demanded the appearance of a functional family.

  Brad left a message for Nick before he left Drew’s house. Maybe they’d all gone to Morgan’s parents’ for the holiday?

  But first thing Friday morning, when other people were hitting the sales, if he hadn’t heard from Nick, he was hunting him down. It was time for answers.

  Nick and Morgan trudged back to the ICU the day after Thanksgiving. Nick hadn’t been feeling very thankful, but as Mrs. Estrada had pointed out, Drew was alive and slowly improving. That should be reason enough.

  “Don’t push this ‘brother from another mother’ thing too far,” the ICU nurse had cautioned them that first night. Fortunately, Jerry Fortier was an ex of Drew’s and knew and liked Nick. He’d spoken in the hushed tones that seemed part of the standard protocol in the ICU. “You’re in here because I know you and because you’re the first person on the ICE list in Drew’s wallet. Just be glad he had that much, because his cell phone was apparently broken during the assault. Legally, until or unless we can track down any advanced directives naming you, that’s worth less than a bucket of warm spit. Him,” he’d said, indicating Morgan with a wink, “I don’t know from Adam.”

  But then Drew’s parents had arrived the next morning and told the hospital staff in no uncertain terms that Nick and his boyfriend were to be admitted to their son’s presence, if only, as the dramatic Claire St. Charles had said, “Because that’s what Drew would want, and woe betide the man who makes his best friend sit in the waiting room.”

  “Trust me, it’s not worth the racket,” Drew’s father, Edward, had told the attending physician.

  “What’s his condition this morning?” Morgan asked. He leaned over the desk and set a large latte down next to Jerry.

  “Thanks, sweetie. Unchanged from last night,” Jerry told them, looking up from the terminal where he was synching vital information from a tablet computer to a patient’s file in the hospital’s main computer. “He’s stable, but until he wakes up, we won’t know how bad the head trauma is. The swelling in his brain’s almost gone, and that’s always a good sign. You’re clear to go in.”

  “Thanks, Jerry. Drew’s parents should be here soon,” Nick said.

  Jerry’s eyes went back to his work. “One at a time, though. Morgan can stay out here and flirt with me.”

  “Go on in, Nick. I think I’ll be safe enough. Nurse Ratched talks a good line, but we both know that’s all it is,” Morgan said.

  “That might be funny if I hadn’t heard it, oh I don’t know, a billion times already in my young career,” Jerry said dryly.

  Morgan smiled. “You just bring it out in all of us.”

  “I’ll bring it out, all right. A great big paddle to whoop your lily ass. Now get in there, Nick. I’ve got work to do if this child you snatched from the cradle will let me get to it,” Jerry harrumphed good-naturedly.

  Morgan laughed softly as he sat down to wait. It was good to hear him laugh, Nick thought. They hadn’t had much to laugh about in the last few days. Morgan had been even more upset than he at seeing Drew’s crumpled body on the cold pavement outside Aspects. He sometimes forgot about the years separating them. It wasn’t that he wasn’t shaken, but those seven years between them tempered him a little.

  He pushed aside the curtain from Drew’s bay and stepped inside. The barely audible hiss of the oxygen flow and the louder beep of the monitors faded to a background buzz as Nick focused entirely on the form on the bed.

  Nick still cringed seeing Drew like that. In its own way, it was every bit as shocking as the immediate aftermath of the assault. He pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down and held Drew’s uninjured hand, despite the restraints meant to keep him from worrying at the breathing tube. He was careful not to disturb the IV and set the monitors to screaming.

  “Wake up, you drama queen. You’ve scared us all more than enough,” Nick whispered, more to himself than anything. He couldn’t tell sleeping from the coma Drew’d been in after surgery in the wee hours of that first terrible day after the beating.

  Then Nick stared at Drew. He must’ve imagined it. But no, he saw movement. Drew opened his eyes.

  “Unh,” Drew whispered. He tried to move his hand but the restraints did their work well.

  Nick stood so fast the chair flew back and clattered to the floor. “Jerry!”

  He grabbed his best friend in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thank God!”

  “Out of the way!” Jerry commanded, shoving Nick aside.

  He didn’t mind. He joined Morgan outside the bay, hovering as people came running, a doctor and another nurse from elsewhere in the ICU. Then he thought of something.

  “We need to call Drew’s parents,” Nick said.

  “And Brad,” Morgan said. Standing not ten feet from a sign forbidding the use of cell phones, Morgan pulled his smart phone out and dialed. “Mrs. St. Charles? It’s Morgan. He’s awake.” He held the phone away from his ear, and Nick could hear her hysterical sobbing quite clearly. When it cut off, a male voice spoke. He held the phone closer. “Yes, Mr. St. Charles, we’ll see you soon.”

  Nick pointed to the sign. “You’re such a rebel.”

  “If I let other people’s rules get in my way, we wouldn’t be together,” Morgan said.

  “Ouch.” Nick pulled Morgan into a hug. “I love you so much. Thanks for being here.”

  “Where else would I be?” Morgan replied.

  “Not everyone would be so understanding of my devotion to another man,” Nick said quietly.

  Moran shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m not everyone.”

  “No, you’re most certainly not,” Nick said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By the time the doctors finished prodding him, Drew had nodded back off again.

  “It’s about what I’d predict,” Jerry explained to them, Morgan and Nick and the St. Charleses in a small conference room away from the droning beep-beep of monitors and life-support equipment. “He’s been through a lot and lost a fair amount of blood.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Fortier, is it standard procedure for nurses to give these kind of briefings?” Claire St. Charles said coolly.

  “No, but none of the doctors want to do it,” Jerry said, smiling slightly. “It seems you’ve already developed quite a reputation. Now then, starting at the top, his concussion is getting better based on the fact that he’s awake and lucid. His jaw is wired to deal with the crack in his mandible. The blow, or one of them, also took out several teeth. Given Drew’s relatively young age, the periodontist will probably opt for replacements that screw directly into the jawbone itself, but that’s not anything we handle here and will have to wait until his jaw heals completely. He’ll continue to be fed through a gastric tube.

  “The biggest problem right now is the hemothorax affecting the left lung,” Jerry said.

  “A cracked jawbone I get, but what’s a hemothorax?” Edward St. Charles asked.

  “Internal bleeding into the space around the lungs, in this case, the left lung. The more blood and other fluids that collect in the space, the less room there is for the lung to inflate properly. Eventually, if there’s enough fluid, the lung collapses.”

  “My baby,” Claire whispered.

  “We’ve got a drain, a chest tube, inserted between the fifth and sixth ribs. Given his cracked ribs, that can’t feel too good,” Jerry said, “but then those cracked ribs alone aren’t going to feel very good. In fact, they’re going to make breathing very painful. He’s not going to want to breathe very
deeply, even once he’s off the ventilator. With only shallow breathing, phlegm—that’s snot for you, Mrs. St. Charles—collects in the lungs and causes pneumonia. So until he heals, Drew’s going to have some very fine painkillers so he can breathe normally.”

  “What about the hand?” Edward asked.

  Jerry shrugged. “The hand surgeon’s set it and done her best. He’ll have to have rehab it if it’s his dominant hand. I don’t remember.”

  “Remember?” Claire said archly.

  “Why yes.” Jerry grinned, his teeth startlingly white against his dark, dark skin. “Didn’t you know? Drew and I dated for about six months a few years back.”

  Nick turned away to hide his smile, while Morgan bit his lip to keep from laughing. Claire St. Charles could be a dramatic, even melodramatic, woman, but Jerry did a fine job of refusing to let her cast herself in the role of the Tragic Victim’s Mother.

  “Where were we? Oh yes, he’ll have to learn to use his other hand for various… bodily functions, but I’d imagine Drew’ll rise to the occasion. So. Rehab, and for the fractured patella and damaged knee joint too. He’ll be on crutches for a while, then maybe a walker or a cane. It just depends.”

  “How long?” Edward asked quietly.

  “About six weeks on the jaw. Roughly the same on the hand, maybe a little longer on the knee, since it’s load-bearing.” Jerry consulted the tablet with Drew’s medical records. “What else? Oh yes. The item of biggest concern right now is the blood in his urine. It—”

  “Blood?” Clare gasped. “In his urine?”

  Jerry nodded. “Have you noticed the rosy color coming down through the catheter and into the collection cup?”

  “Yes, but I’d assumed it was blood or lymph or something draining, maybe from that collapsed lung you mentioned,” Claire said, one hand clutching her necklace.

  “That tube is further up,” Jerry said. “It’s indicative of internal bleeding, and if it doesn’t stop, it’ll mean more surgery.”

  Edward sighed. “More surgery. Poor Drew. What about that—”

  “What about that horrid tube in his mouth?” Clare demanded. “I want it out so he can talk to me.”

  “That ‘horrid tube’, Mrs. St. Charles, is right now the only thing keeping him breathing, and yes, it prevents him from talking because it goes down the back of his throat, in between his vocal cords and into the top of his lungs,” Jerry acknowledged.

  Nick squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of something going that deep. “So how long before he can ream us out for all this?”

  “It won’t be fast. He’ll have to be weaned off the artificial breathing, and even once he is, the tube will be left in until we’re sure he won’t need it again,” Jerry said. “It’s better than having to put it in again. It’s pretty common for the tube to stay a couple of weeks after he leaves the ICU.” Jerry held up a hand. “Before you ask, I don’t know. That’s up to the doctors. A week or two here, a few weeks more in the trauma nursing unit, then a rehab facility until he can take care of himself.”

  Jerry looked at each of them. “Drew’s going to need everything we can give him.”

  “We can’t stay away from work that long, but we’ll try to fly up here again,” Edward said.

  Claire looked at them. “That means it’s up to you boys.”

  Nick and Morgan nodded. “We won’t let him down,” Nick promised.

  “Hi, Drew. It’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, or where you are, but I hope you’re okay. I… I guess you’re really mad at me and don’t want me around anymore. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  He disconnected that call and made another one.

  “Nick? It’s Brad. What the hell’s going on? Drew’s disappeared, and this is the third message I’ve left you.”

  Brad ended the call. Usually he just slept the day after Turkey Day, but this year he could only worry helplessly. First Drew had disappeared, and then Nick and presumably Morgan, since those two had more or less been grafted together.

  All the people he wanted in his life weren’t taking his calls, and the ones he didn’t want and frankly hated stuck to him like ticks. Randall, for sure. Philip could go either way. His brother’s retreat during his confrontation with their dad filled him with contempt, but then, so much did about life in the Sundstrom home.

  Brad got up to go rummage through the fridge for leftovers. Randall might be an asshole, but he set a good table. Not that Brad was hungry, but it was something to do, and then he might feel guilty enough to go work off his nerves at the gym.

  His cell phone’s bleating interrupted his mental ramblings on the way to the kitchen. Nick’s number flashed on the display.

  “Nick! Where’ve you been?” Brad said, quickly returning to his room and locking the door to his cell behind him.

  “Hey, Brad. Sorry. It’s been… rough,” Nick said, his voice cracking. He coughed. “Shit. I totally spaced on calling you. I’m so sorry, I—”

  “Dude, what the hell’s going on?”

  Nick was silent for a moment. “Drew was attacked Monday night on his way out of Aspects.”

  Brad fell back onto his bed. “What? How… who… God.”

  “We don’t know who yet. Morgan and some of the witnesses chased them, but they got away. The police are treating it as the hate crime it so obviously is.”

  “Where were you and Morgan?” Brad demanded.

  “We were still inside. Drew wasn’t in the best mood,” Nick said. Nick didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. Even a block of wood like Brad knew what those unspoken words meant.

  Brad swallowed. Drew. His Drew. “So what happened?”

  “Drew left early to take a cab back to my place to get his car. Morgan and I left shortly after. But in that interval, three men attacked Drew outside of the bar and severely beat him. It looked pretty bad, but I’m not sure his life was ever in that much danger.”

  “Jeez,” Brad breathed. Nick’s description of the injuries made him sick to his stomach as his imagination scrawled blood and wreckage on his mental image of Drew.

  “Sorry I didn’t call you sooner. We’ve been spending a lot of time at the Med Center, and I keep forgetting things like my cell phone charger. I think the only reason I’ve been home to shower and change clothes is Morgan’s insistence,” Nick said tiredly. “Drew’s in the ICU for a while longer. At least with school out this week for Thanksgiving we haven’t had coaching to worry about.”

  “Do you think it’d be okay to visit him?” Brad asked quietly. At least he knew why Drew hadn’t returned his phone calls, but after that, he doubted Drew would even want to see him.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now, honestly,” Nick sighed.

  “Right,” Brad said, squashing his hurt. He should’ve known better than to ask. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I have to go, Brad. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Brad didn’t bother to say goodbye as Nick ended the call. He didn’t see the point.

  Guilt washed over him like a tsunami. He should’ve been there. If he’d been there, he’d have been able to protect Drew. If he’d been there, Drew would never have wanted to leave his own birthday celebration.

  He might was well have kicked Drew himself. People could say what they wanted, but he knew the truth. This was his fault. He should’ve been there.

  Brad stared at the ceiling, ignoring the ache in his chest and the knot in his stomach and the tears escaping the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of Drew lying battered and broken and bloody on the ground.

  Drew must’ve been furious with him to have left his own house just to get away from him. Intellectually, Brad knew Drew was pretty unhappy, but it must’ve been a lot worse than he’d ever dreamed. And now? Now Brad knew that Drew hated him. How could he not?

  His first real relationship was down in flames, and he had no one to talk to but Drew’s best friend and that guy’s boyfriend. They were t
he only gay guys he knew.

  He’d failed. He was a failure

  He spent the rest of the day there, staring at the ceiling, mired in despair, listening to the refrain of failure echo in his head.

  Nick hated him too. He’d heard it in his voice. Why wouldn’t he? Brad had let Nick’s best friend down, had left his best friend to be savagely beaten. Brad would hate him too.

  He knew it was best for all of them that he not return to coaching in January. If he were honest with himself, what he liked most about helping Nick was being on the water and around a boathouse, not the coaching per se. He’d finish out the semester, but once the crew was off the water for the holidays, he was done. Rather than resign officially, he’d send Nick an e-mail and then just slouch off into the murk of a foggy valley day.