by Ophelia Bell
First up is a patient whose presence here breaks my heart. Just when I finally managed to put the death of J.J. Santos behind me, his mother, Mrs. Marcella Santos, appeared in the ICU after surviving a stroke. Every time I arrive in her room, I can’t help but feel that the universe is trying to give me another chance by helping her recover after being unable to help her son.
Shortly after arriving in my care and undergoing surgery, Marcella was placed in a medically induced coma to relieve intracranial pressure due to cerebral edema. She’s the one patient whose recovery is the most precarious right now. On the plus side, she has very dedicated, loving children who have been by her side almost non-stop, less one son whose absence is something I think about daily. But even without him, I’m relieved that she has such a strong support system.
I expect to see one of her four living children when I approach her room—her oldest son, Maddox, has been a regular fixture in her room since she was admitted—but through the glass I see an unfamiliar man with thick, wavy hair and a dark beard seated at her bedside.
I turn back to the nurse and ask, “Jana, who is he?”
She glances up and shakes her head. “He’s been here for the last few hours. Mrs. Santos’ son vouched for him, said he’s family. That’s all I know.” She looks at her screen and taps her keyboard, then reads a name. “Mason Black? He hasn’t visited before. Usually it’s just Maddox and his brother and sister. And the husband.”
She frowns at the last part. None of us are particularly enamored of Mr. Santos, a gruff, growly bear of a man. He’s an aging Marine whose personality veers into confrontational more often than not. They told me he was drunk when his wife was brought in, and plenty of rumors have circulated about whether he caused her stroke. Marcella’s tests didn’t exactly prove otherwise.
“Thank you,” I say and head toward Marcella’s room.
The man is holding Marcella’s hand, speaking in a subdued tone. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but when I step into the room and quietly close the door behind me, the deep timbre strikes a familiar chord.
He goes silent and his head jerks up. The first thing I notice is his one swollen, bloodshot eye beneath the shadow of a lock of hair as his gaze darts past me, then around the room in near-panic, as if I’ve just cornered a wild beast. His knuckles are a mess too. The man’s been in a serious hand-to-hand fight very recently. His eye looks swollen enough that he should probably have someone look at it.
“Hi, Mr. Black, is it? I’m Dr. Nicolo, one of the surgeons on Marcella’s team. Nurse Jana tells me you’re family?”
It’s an effort to remain calm and keep my tone even, but if Maddox trusted this guy enough to leave him alone with his mother, he can’t be that bad. Still, with a black eye like that and skinned knuckles, I can’t ignore the possibility that he’s dangerous.
His steel-gray eyes fix on my face and he slowly stands, though he remains wordless. His jaw flexes as his eyes drift down, taking me in. There’s not much to see in these scrubs, but my body heats nonetheless.
His thick, dark hair curls over his collar, and his neatly trimmed beard covers half his face. I can’t make out much of his body, either. He wears a baggy duffel coat with a flannel shirt underneath and jeans. There’s a rip at the collar of the shirt, the top button gone, the second hanging by a thread, revealing a dark swath of ink at the top of his sternum.
He’s a big guy—almost as big as Maddox—yet despite my racing heart, I don’t feel threatened. Just vaguely turned on by his sheer, masculine presence.
“Nicolo,” he repeats, drawing my name out in a gravelly voice as he meets my eyes again. The sound sends goosebumps cascading down my body. The voice definitely belongs to a member of the Santos family. He sounds just like Maddox.
His eyes narrow for a beat and he tilts his head as if he’s waiting for me to do something. Then he scratches his beard and nods. “Yeah, I’m family. From, ah, out of state. Cousin. Just stopped by to bring well wishes to Aunt Marci and the rest of the Santos brood. I missed them at Christmas. It’s a shame, what happened.” His tone is oddly forced, but he sounds serious enough when he asks, “What can you tell me? Was it trauma-related?”
I raise both eyebrows at this question because I was just contemplating the cause before I walked in. Glancing at the woman on the ventilator, I give a careful nod. “Her scans did reveal signs of past head trauma, which likely contributed to her stroke. Are you very close with the family? Perhaps you can shed more light on her history. Give a clearer picture. No detail is too small.”
I’ve gotten adept at fishing for information from patients, and even though it won’t help Marcella, I’d love confirmation of my suspicions. Her kids weren’t particularly forthcoming, but if their father abused them too, their unwillingness to speak out is no surprise. An outside observer might be more willing to share.
But willingness isn’t exactly what I see in Mason’s eyes. A cold rage transforms his gray irises to daggers that slice straight through me. I realize dangerous is far too tame a word to use for this man.
Before he can answer, a chorus of angry male voices rise from outside. I turn to look, grimacing when I see the patient’s husband, Julian Santos, nose to nose with a distinguished-looking Latino gentleman in a tailored suit. He’s red-faced and yelling at the man to stay the fuck away from Marcella while Maddox tries to hold him back.
I recognize the other man too, but it takes a second because I’ve never seen him angry before. As one of the UCLA Medical Center’s most generous donors, Arturo Flores has visited the ICU on occasion, but he’s always coolly collected. He’s far from emotionless now, snarling accusations at Julian just as fast as Julian spits them at him.
“This is your doing, Santos!” I catch before Flores slips into Spanish. I only make out a smattering of the ensuing rant. I’m pretty sure he just called Julian a piece of shit who isn’t worthy of kissing Marcella’s feet, but without checking a translator, I can’t be sure.
As Maddox struggles to hold his father back, his eyes dart to the room. It occurs to me that he probably cares more about keeping Julian away from Marcella than about the fight that’s likely to happen if he lets go.
Instinctively, I slip to the door and head out to try to help. The man is clearly drunk, and it’s barely two hours past dawn. Two burly hospital security officers arrive then and grab Julian by both arms.
“Sir! We’re going to have to ask you to leave if you don’t calm down.”
“What the fuck? He’s the one who doesn’t belong here!” Julian yells, spitting at Flores. “Haul his ass away! She’s my wife! I just want to see my wife!” He begins to sob, but his cries fall on deaf ears and Flores sneers as security disappears out the door, practically dragging Julian along.
The entire staff has paused to watch the drama, only a few keeping up a pretense of working. Once the door closes behind the pleading man, there’s a collective exhale. Flores straightens his suit and gives Maddox a nod.
“I apologize for my outburst. Your father and I have never gotten along.”
Maddox rests his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “He had it coming, as usual.”
Flores turns toward me and steps closer as if he intends to walk right through me into Marcella’s room. I hold a hand up.
“I’m sorry, sir. Only family are allowed in.” I tilt my chin and look him in the eyes, hoping I don’t need to say that I know who he is and that he definitely isn’t family.
His eyes flash with anger as he sizes me up. “I funded half this floor, and you’re telling me I can’t visit a friend who’s a patient here?”
I stand my ground. “Not today, sir. This is the ICU, and while you may get a pass to be in this ward thanks to your donations, I can’t let you into any patients’ rooms. You’ll have to wait until she’s recovered enough to be moved out of intensive care.”
His nostrils flare, but he finally nods and walks away. I meet Maddox’s eyes and he gives me an appraising glance, the
n a nod, before he casts another look toward Marcella’s room and curses, rushing past me into the room.
I turn, wondering what he could be upset about, and see that Mason Black has vanished.
“Where the hell did he go? He was here a second ago.” Maddox turns to me where I stand in the doorway and I blink, startled for a second by the similarity between him and the man who was just here. It wasn’t just the voice they share—I’m so flustered by those piercing gray eyes I can’t answer at first, because that pang of familiarity is back. It’s like déja vù, which makes no sense because the face I see in my mind belongs to a dead man.
“I—I don’t know,” I finally manage with a shake of my head. “We were talking not two minutes ago. He must have just left.” I wave vaguely at the door. Maddox swears again and rushes back out.
I’m dazed by the crazy sequence of events this morning. It’s barely 8AM. and my adrenaline’s elevated as much as if I was just mid-surgery. I take a deep breath to settle my nerves and redirect my attention to Marcella. Her numbers all look good and she’s due for an MRI later today to assess the swelling. Her recovery isn’t going to be easy, but she’s in good hands.
I sense another presence as I’m updating her chart and look up to see Arturo Flores standing at the foot of her bed as if I didn’t just send him away. I start to object again and he raises a hand. “I’ll go in a moment. I just wanted to check on her.” He’s calm as he regards her, then looks at me, his gaze appraising. “Not many people have the guts to stand up to me, Dr. Nicolo. I appreciate that.”
“I’d want the same for anyone in my family, wouldn’t you?” I say.
A small smile appears amid his neat salt-and-pepper goatee. “You do strike me as a woman who honors her parents. I imagine they’re quite proud of you.”
My cheeks heat and I dip my head, a little awestruck by the attention of such a charismatic, if infamous, man. “I try,” I say, and straighten my spine. “But parent-child relationships aren’t always rainbows and kittens. Case in point.” I gesture toward the area just outside the room where Maddox recently struggled to get his dad under control. I don’t want to outright lie to the man; my parents and I have a complicated relationship.
“True enough. Trust can be destroyed far more easily than it’s gained, even when you share blood with someone. Perhaps especially when you do. Lies are difficult to overcome. The longer they go on, the worse the trust erodes, until there’s nothing left but a shell of the relationship held together by threads of memories. Parents come to those lies easily, claiming it’s to protect the child, but they never count on the child growing up and learning the truth, do they? They’re so blinded by the need to shield their offspring that they can’t predict the damage done in the long-term. To themselves and to the child.”
His gaze is direct, fixed on my face as he speaks, and the longer he goes on, the more I feel like he sees straight through me. It’s as if he’s talking about me and my relationship with my parents. But that can’t be it, can it? How could he know how my mother lied to us? How it destroyed her marriage to my father and almost ruined all our lives in the process? No, it’s impossible for Arturo to know that, but his words hit home anyway.
Except seeing how he looks at my patient, I start to wonder whether he’s actually talking about Marcella, about the lies she tells herself and her children in the interest of protecting them from an abusive father.
Or perhaps Flores is lamenting the collapse of his own family.
I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there, grasping for something. Finally he reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it gently. “Treat her as if she were your own mother, Dr. Nicolo.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”
He walks out, and it takes me a second to get my bearings. I finally get moving again and check my watch, cursing at how much time I lost with this morning’s drama.
It’s going to be a full day, followed by a long night. Once I update the neuro attending on the status of all our cases, I’m looking forward to a long-awaited vacation. I skipped Christmas to work, hoping to gain points with my boss by staying through the holidays, but New Year’s is sacred. I may not have the best relationship with my mom, but I will be attending her annual New Year’s Eve party in four days, come hell or high water. It’s always been the best party of the year, and it’s one of the few traditions I observe.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket and I take it out to find a text from my best friend, Nina.
“What time does your flight arrive tonight?”
“Midnight, give or take,” I reply.
“Is the brat picking you up or is your mom sending a car?”
I roll my eyes. She means my fiancé, Barnaby, who she’s despised ever since she first met him back when we started dating in med school. My relationship with him hasn’t exactly been drama-free, but aside from a brief break three years ago over the distance—he still lives in Denver and I’ll be in Los Angeles until I complete my residency—we’ve stayed together. Nina, on the other hand, has never had a boyfriend for longer than six months, so I suspect she just can’t wrap her head around a long-term, committed relationship based on mutual respect like Barnaby and I have.
“I’ll just Uber,” I type back. I’m past the age where I need Mom’s help with anything. As the daughter of a public figure, it took a long time to get out from under the eye of a watchful media. I even went as far as insisting on using only Dad’s half of our hyphenated last name before entering med school. Not because I don’t love my mother, but I was done getting special treatment thanks to my association with her. Moving halfway across the country helped too.
“The dick should meet you, is all I’m saying. Ugh.” She sends an emoji with its tongue out, then adds, “Anyway, text me when you land. I’ll meet you at your mom’s loft with a bottle of vino and we can catch up!”
“Can’t wait!” I reply, grinning at the screen.
Just before I stow it back in my pocket, I notice an unread message from Barnaby. I tap it and am faced with a nonsensical string of emojis. I smile at first, because a few of them are low-key sexual innuendo.
This is a first for him since we got engaged, but it’s cute, so I text back a set of lips, then, “Coming in tonight. Want to meet me and we can act that out?”
Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen, then disappear. I don’t have time to wait around for an answer, so I slip the phone back into my pocket and head to my next patient.
5
Mason
Under no circumstance can I let my dad set eyes on me, so while the lovely doctor is distracted, I slip out at a brisk walk, leaving the ward behind. A few paces down the hall, past the door to the ICU, I see an empty patient room and step into it, shutting the door and peering out the window to wait.
Security enters the door to the ICU ward, then returns a few seconds later, dragging my struggling asshole of a father. A moment later, Maddox appears. I open the door and grab his arm, hauling him in after me before he has a chance to object.
“You didn’t fucking tell me it was trauma-related, asshole,” I snap. “Flores is right—Dad’s the reason she’s lying there with a goddamn tube down her throat.”
Maddox closes his eyes and inhales, going still for a few heartbeats. He’s been a different man after his discharge from the Navy four years ago. When we were teenagers, he earned his “Mad Dog” nickname by being the first to fly off the handle when someone threatened the people he loved. He was always the first to stand up to Dad too, which was why our father tended to strike when Maddox wasn’t around, leaving Mom to be the shield. The rest of us had no chance of standing up to the bastard ourselves, and as his namesake, I became his whipping boy for not living up to the name. I admire Maddox’s newfound enlightenment, but I don’t want to be alone in my rage right now.
“We aren’t having this discussion now,” he says, taking out his phone and tapping a message before sliding it back into hi
s pocket. “I’m doing my best to keep him away from her until his next assignment. He’ll be out of our hair in another week. What I need is to know you’re not going to do anything crazy to get yourself killed for real. How’s the assignment going? ‘It’s complicated’ isn’t exactly useful information. So if there’s anything you can’t tell Flores, give it to me now, because you have about two minutes until he gets here.”
My mind churns over all the things I wanted to say while I was on the drive up, and before I realize it, it’s all spilling out.
“I’m in some complicated shit with this assignment. I’m not even sure where to start, but I don’t give a fuck about me right now. I want to know how that bastard is getting away with putting Mom in the hospital. I would’ve hoped after three years and with all us kids out of the house, she’d have finally left him. So tell me, why the fuck does she stay?”
I pace to the window and back, fists clenched as I stare at my older brother. He’s leaning against the wall beside the door, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans and a deep frown on his face.
“Why she stays . . .” He trails off with a pained look and shakes his head. “Why she stays is complicated.”
I take a step closer. “Did she tell you why? Actually give you a reason?”
He glances to the door and then back at me and nods. “She’s trying to protect him from Arturo. Apparently Arturo promised her when she married Dad that as long as they were together, Dad was safe, but the second she left him, Arturo was prepared to kill him.”
“We should be so goddamn lucky.” I shake my head. “Why doesn’t he just fucking do it? He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, I know that much.”
“You don’t, really,” Maddox says. “Arturo’s the most calculating motherfucker I’ve ever met. He doesn’t do anything without knowing it will benefit him or his family somehow.”
“You’re his family now, in case you haven’t noticed, or doesn’t he count the fact that you’re fucking the two people closest to him? And what about Elle? She’s his goddamn daughter. Surely he’d want to protect her?”
