“I heard that,” Vern announced. He was still sitting next to Jackson, his fingers linked at his waist and his eyes closed.
“Fucker has ears like a bat,” Manny murmured.
Michael allowed himself a small smile.
“You just have to hang on to the thought, Michael,” Manny went on. “Gil is tough. And he’s going to be okay. Just keep thinking it. He’s going to be okay. And when you can’t think it anymore, we’ll think it for you. We’ve handled worse than this.”
Michael took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
Manny’s small smile was beautiful. “We’ve got you.”
Michael looked at the men still sitting together. They were watching him, but for Vernon, who was still pretending to be resting his eyes. Jackson’s face was solemn and David’s eyes suspiciously bright, but the support in them was undeniable. Michael realized he’d never had friends like this before in his life.
The swish of the electric doors sounded and Michael whirled, his heart in his throat. Dr. Shumway walked through. She looked so calm; Michael took his first deep breath in what felt like hours. If she had terrible news for them, she wouldn’t look so calm, would she? He hurried over when Jackson stood.
“Mr. Henry?” she asked, looking from face to face.
“I’m Jackson Henry.”
She studied the anxious faces, then settled on Jackson’s. “You’re Mr. Chandler’s medical representative?”
“Yes.”
She looked apologetic. “I’m actually only supposed to speak to you.”
“Anything you say to me, I’m only going to repeat to them anyway. And Gil wouldn’t want them kept in the dark. You can trust me on that.”
“All right, I will, then.” She slipped her hands into her deep coat pockets. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. Chandler sustained a badly broken right leg in the fall. Anytime there is an open fracture, particularly in an environment like a construction area, there’s always the concern of infection. We’ve started him on a series of strong IV antibiotics in hopes of heading off anything like that. He also struck his head when he fell, and that is actually of more concern than the broken leg.”
“Okay.” Jackson swallowed nervously. “Height and impact… it did a lot of damage?”
“Significant, yes. When he hit his head, he sustained an injury to the tissue surrounding the brain,” she explained patiently. “There are layers between the brain and the skull. When blood collects in these areas, it’s called a subdural hematoma. Sometimes this kind of injury can be relatively minor and resolve on its own. Unfortunately, we don’t believe Mr. Chandler’s will. I’ve consulted with a neurosurgeon, Dr. Aadi Pillai, and he feels the accumulation of blood pressing on Mr. Chandler’s brain is reaching dangerous levels. I agree with him.”
“So, what happens next?” David asked.
“The doctor will go in and drill two holes in his skull to clear the hematoma and relieve the pressure,” she answered. Michael groaned before he realized he’d made any sound. David slipped an arm around his waist, holding him tight. The doctor spoke directly to Michael. “We have to relieve the pressure, and this is the least invasive way. We’ll suction out the accumulated blood and insert a tube, which will allow for continued drainage until the injury stops bleeding, hopefully without compromising brain function. We’ll start with this approach in hopes we won’t need to do anything more invasive.”
“Could there be a compromise of brain function?” Michael asked, terrified by the thought.
She gave him a steady look. “There’s always the risk of permanent damage with a head injury, but we won’t know that until he regains consciousness. And even then, there could be lingering effects. For now, this is what needs to happen to reduce that possibility.”
Michael felt a sick swooping sensation in his stomach. Could brain surgery ever be considered anything but life-threatening? And what if there were permanent effects? The idea made him feel sick.
“What about his leg?” Vern asked, looking as pale as Michael felt.
“That requires surgery as well. We feel like putting him under anesthesia once is preferable to waiting and doing a second surgery, so they’ll be doing the surgeries concurrently. Dr. Scott Angelo and his team are going to do his leg, and there’s no finer orthopedic surgeon on our staff. They’re prepping him now and will be taking him up shortly.” She looked from face to face, her eyes kind. “He’s young and physically in excellent condition. Both of those things weigh heavily in his favor.”
“Thank you. Should we stay here?” Jackson asked. “Or is there someplace closer?”
“I’ll send a nurse to take you upstairs.” She patted Michael’s shoulder before she turned away. “Hang in there. These surgeons are the best we’ve got.”
He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to nod. Hang in there and He’s going to be okay. It was all just words.
How was he supposed to cling to platitudes when he was scared to death?
CHAPTER TEN
AS DR. Shumway promised, a perky young nurse named Hayley with a blonde ponytail came out and took them upstairs to the surgical waiting room. She provided a bit of levity by trying to flirt with Manny, turning him bright red. Vernon took advantage of the opportunity to tease him after she sent him a winsome smile as the elevator doors closed behind her.
“She was sure cute, Emanuel.” Vern took a seat, arching a brow at Manny. “Think of the backflips your mama would do if you brought her home for dinner.”
“Fuck off, Vernon.” Manny sat next to him, hitting him in the shoulder.
“Careful, Manny. He’s old.” Jackson gave Michael a slight wink as he and David took seats across from them. Vernon flipped him off, which pulled a reluctant smile from Michael. It felt completely wrong on his face and faded almost instantly.
“You should call his brother,” David murmured to Jackson. “You told him you would when you had news.”
“Oh yeah.” Jackson made a face, reaching into the pocket of his denim jacket for his phone.
“He’s better than the sister.” David reminded him with a sour expression, as if discussing her was distasteful.
“Which isn’t saying shit,” Vern muttered. Manny kicked the bottom of Vern’s shoe. “What? It’s the truth.”
“Are they that bad?” Michael glanced between Vern and Jackson as they exchanged a long look.
“He really isn’t,” Jackson finally replied. “He just isn’t gay-friendly, which makes him the same as half the country. His sister, on the other hand, wants her hands on their parents’ money and doesn’t much care how she gets it.” He pressed a kiss to the back of David’s hand, then stood and walked a short distance to the bank of windows. His voice drifted to them. “Yeah, Don. It’s Jackson….”
“Sometimes I think I’m the only one of us who has a decent sibling,” David said, pulling Michael’s attention.
“My brother is all right,” Vern growled. “As long as I don’t have to see him.”
“I love my sister,” Manny said. “She’s pretty cool. She just lives in Oregon.”
“And she makes the best pasteles I’ve eaten in my life,” Vern agreed. “I’d marry Anitza to get her to cook for me.”
Manny smirked. “She has a straight husband and four children who might protest.”
“I’m an only child.” Michael sat in the chair beside David. “And my parents were so bad at it, it’s probably a good thing they only had one.”
David gave him a sad smile and took Michael’s hand. “They really are pretty hopeless.”
“That’s being very kind.”
David ran his thumb over Michael’s knuckles. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live. I just hate the waiting. You know how bad I am at this.”
“Sweetheart”—Vern’s voice was rough—“I don’t think any of us are great at it.”
Jackson finished his conversation and came back to his seat.
“Well?” David searched his face.
�
�He said to call him when there’s news.”
“God forbid he get his sorry ass over here himself.” Vern made a face, sinking lower in his chair.
“They live in Moses Lake, Vern, and they’ve got little kids. I imagine he’ll get here when he can.”
Vern didn’t respond, but his sour expression spoke volumes.
After that they settled into a restless pattern. They bought horrible coffee from a vending machine around the corner, then didn’t drink it. Beverley and Shirley arrived with a picnic basket full of sandwiches, apples, and cookies, and two thermoses of fortunately truly excellent coffee. Michael couldn’t force himself to eat anything, but Bev’s coffee was always welcome. The moms didn’t stay long, departing with hugs after their sons promised to call when there was news.
At the two-hour mark, a short man with cinnamon-toned skin, wearing dark red scrubs, came through the doors to the waiting room. The gathered men went still, watching him. He approached and studied them, looking from face to face. “Mr. Henry?”
Jackson stood and offered his hand. “I’m Jackson Henry.”
“I’m Dr. Pillai. I just operated on your friend, Mr. Chandler?” His English was impeccable, even with his noticeable Indian accent.
“How is he?”
“He’s stable. I was able to evacuate the subdural hematoma, and the pressure in his brain has returned to near normal levels. There is a drainage tube in place that should prevent the hematoma from reforming. If the bleeding tapers off or stops, he should improve dramatically.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Jackson rubbed his hands on the side seams of his Levi’s, the only indication of his nerves. “If it doesn’t stop the bleeding?”
“Then we’d probably need to consider a craniotomy, where we remove a section of the skull to get to the bleeder. For now, I don’t think that’s necessary. The next twenty-four hours should tell us.”
“But he came through all right?” Michael’s voice trembled, and his diaphragm was shaking.
“Considering what he’s been through today, he’s actually doing quite well. Blood pressure and pulse are near normal, and his right pupil is now reacting to light, which is a good sign. I’ll be able to tell you more once he regains consciousness. Dr. Angelo is still setting the broken leg, but he should be in to see you all before long.”
He gave them a slight smile before he went back out through the double doors.
“That’s good.” Vern studied them in turn. “Isn’t it?”
“It is.” Jackson sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “One surgery down, one to go.”
It was after six and they were getting anxious again by the time Dr. Angelo came through the doors. He apologized for the delay. “He’s a big man, and his bones are heavy. Fortunately the breaks were clean, and the paramedics did a terrific job cleaning the wound.” He pulled his surgical cap from his head, and his dark hair spilled over his forehead. “He’ll set off the metal detectors at airports from here on out, but as long as we can avoid infection setting in, I’m optimistic about his prognosis. He’s in recovery now, then they’ll be taking him to the ICU.”
Michael’s mouth was dry. “The ICU… isn’t that bad?”
The surgeon shook his head. “The fact he didn’t regain consciousness before surgery makes us want to keep a close eye on him, that’s all. Don’t worry. He’s in great physical shape, which helps.”
After he left, Vernon stood up. “I know where the ICU is, at least.”
Manny bumped Vern’s arm with his elbow. The fond, unguarded look the older man gave him in return showed precisely how much he cared about Manny.
They trooped into the elevator again, then into the waiting room connected to the fifth-floor ICU. When Michael sat in his third hard, crappy waiting room chair of the day, he grimaced.
He wasn’t made for this; this hour upon hour of sitting vigil. He wanted to see Gil, to see for himself that he was going to be okay. He needed to touch him, to have those hazel eyes open and look at him. His unconsciousness had been the scariest part of all this. Gil was so very alive, so much larger than life. What if he wasn’t okay? What if something still went wrong? He had to battle the thoughts back before they overwhelmed him.
He looked down, noticing for the first time that the knees of his gray skinny jeans were dusty. He batted at them, which was almost no help at all.
“I think they’re going to have to be washed.” David ran his fingers over Michael’s right knee. “That seems to be ground in pretty good.”
“Lovely.” Michael glanced across the room to his reflection in a window. His hair was a disaster, hanging in a wonky hook over his right eye. He tried to push it back, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. “Well, I look like crap.”
David gave him a wan smile. “Do you honestly think if he’s awake, he’s going to care how you look when he finally sees you?” He shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Michael shifted, feeling awkward. “I don’t get what?”
“Gil really cares about you, Michael. He has for a while. I think he’d take you any way he could get you.”
What Gil wanted… that had been clear all along. The problem lay with Michael, with wanting to keep his fucking distance, and he knew that. But he’d never imagined losing Gil completely, how death might come to such a vital man and take him forever. It left him sick and shaking.
“Are you gentlemen here for Mr. Chandler?”
An unfamiliar nurse wearing Mickey-and-Minnie-Mouse scrubs had come to the door.
Jackson shot to his feet. “We are, yeah.”
“I’m his nurse, Pam. If you can all keep the noise to a minimum, I’ll take you back to see him. It’s almost eight, so I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay very long.”
“We can all go at once?” Vern popped to his feet too.
“Not theoretically, but I don’t think you’re going to turn me in, are you?” Her smile was mischievous.
Michael couldn’t imagine why he was nervous, but as they walked silently down the long hall of the ICU, his palms began to sweat. They passed several rooms with glass walls and privacy curtains, some closed but most open at least a few feet. In many of the rooms there were visitors around the patients. The large cubicles looked like regular hospital rooms but for the sheer volume of equipment. There was more noise from all of the machinery too, pops and whirs and the sound of ventilators. When they were across from the nurses’ station, Pam directed them to an open door. It was dim inside the room, and there was so much equipment surrounding the bed, it was hard to see who was in it. The bed was slightly elevated, and Vern made a pained sound. When Michael got closer, he saw why.
A narrow bandage wrapped from front to back on Gil’s bald head, a tube coming from behind his ear attached to a machine. The bruise that had looked huge earlier now encompassed most of his face on the right side, and his eye was so swollen, Michael couldn’t imagine how he could open it. He was dressed in one of those hospital gowns that ended at the knee, and his cast was visible from just below his knee to his ankle. He had IVs in each arm and a tube in his mouth attached to a ventilator. Bruises blotched his other leg and arms, reminding them how far he’d fallen. All in all, he looked awful.
“Try to remember that just because the bruises and swelling look worse, it doesn’t mean that he is worse.” Pam had come to stand beside him, and she spoke softly. “The bruising on his face and arms will probably be at its worst in a day or two. But it will get better.”
People kept saying that, or a version of that, and he wanted to believe it, he really did. But he was so afraid. Afraid now that someone had gotten past his thorny defenses, now that he cared, he’d lose him.
Each of them walked to the side of the bed, got as close as they could, and bent to murmur something to their friend. Vern spoke softly, then pressed a kiss to the small stretch of forehead above his left eye that wasn’t bruised. Manny bent near his ear, holding his hand. David hung back an
d let Jackson walk forward, and Michael nearly lost it when he heard Jackson’s voice break and saw him wipe away tears.
When it was finally his turn, Michael stumbled closer, stopping beside the bed. He curled his fingers around one of Gil’s big hands and stared down into his battered face. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of the gown tight across his chest. Michael looked over his shoulder at Pam, who still stood near the door. “You don’t have a gown that will fit him?”
“That’s the biggest they had in the ER. I’ll see if I can’t find one for him in the morning.”
“Thank you.” Michael turned back to Gil, stroking his hand over the bruises on his arm. “You’re a mess,” he whispered. “You’re bruised all over, but I guess that makes sense when you fall three floors.” He leaned forward until his lips were next to Gil’s ear. “You scared the shit out of me, you asshole. Have you any idea what that was like, watching you fall…?” Michael bit his lip, refusing to cry. “You have to wake up so I can yell at you, Gilbert. I’ve earned the right.”
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the tight fabric covering Gil’s shoulder. “Wake up, Gil. I need you—” His voice broke, and he paused before trying again. “I need you to come back.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Pam sounded truly regretful. “But you can come back at eleven in the morning.”
“You have my number,” Jackson said. “I’m his medical contact.”
“I promise, if there’s any change, I’ll call you.”
The men left the room, Michael pausing at the door, watching the bellows in the ventilator moving up and down, up and down.
“Is it breathing for him?” he asked impulsively, hoping he didn’t sound as frightened as he was.
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