Lifers

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  If? If we wanted to see him? Why would we be wearing our hearts in plain view if we didn’t? Why would we be gray with fear? I controlled my irrational anger, knowing that this doctor didn’t weigh or calculate the impact of every word she spoke. She should have. She should have realized. They ought to teach doctors to do that, because it matters. Every syllable that leaves their lips wounds or heals—they have that power.

  “Just two of you,” she said. “He’s tired, a little confused, and in a lot of pain.”

  Paul nodded; I just stared at her.

  Bev gave my hand a quick squeeze and assured us they’d wait.

  The doctor led us down a corridor, noisy with visitors, to a room that contained a dozen hospital beds. Most were empty, but the area at the bottom had a curtain pulled across.

  She gestured toward the curtained bed.

  “He has a number of injuries in addition to the detached retina and head laceration,” she said. “He has a fractured cheekbone, five broken ribs, his index finger on his right hand is crushed, and he has a sprained wrist, as well as a number of cuts and contusions.”

  She pulled back the curtain with a quick jerk, and I swallowed hard. Jordan’s face was partially covered in gauze, and a large pad covered his left eye. His lips were swollen and his chest and arms were stained with vivid purples, blues and reds.

  I sat beside the bed and took his good hand in mine.

  “Hey, cowboy,” I choked out.

  His right eye fluttered open, and I think he tried to smile.

  “I’m so mad at you,” I said, as tears began to fall. “And you look like shit.”

  “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he mumbled from between his bruised lips. “Just payin’ a debt.”

  Paul stood wordless next to me, his hand resting on my shoulder. Jordan’s gaze flickered upward.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Your girl’s right,” he said, laughing to stop himself from crying. “You look like hell, son.”

  “Feel like it,” he mumbled, his eyelid fluttering closed again.

  Dr. Manoz bustled back into the room.

  “We have to take him now,” she said. “It’s a standard procedure and is normally performed under local anesthetic. Because of his other injuries, the surgeon, Dr. Linden, has decided to use a general. The procedure usually takes about an hour but Jordan will feel sleepy for six to 12 hours afterward. If you have any questions, Dr. Linden will be happy to answer them.”

  “I’ve got to go now,” I said to Jordan, quietly. “Places to be, things to do.”

  I think he tried to smile but I couldn’t be sure. I leaned down, hoping to find somewhere undamaged to place a soft kiss. He even had blood in his hair.

  The doctor hustled us out of the room immediately, and abandoned us in the corridor. Bev pulled me into a tight hug.

  “He’s goin’ to be okay,” Paul said.

  He went on to list Jordan’s injuries while Bev and Pete looked on appalled.

  “You guys should go on home now,” I said, quietly. “He won’t be awake until tomorrow morning now. You should get some sleep.”

  “Come with us,” Bev pleaded. “You need to rest. We’ll bring you back in the morning.”

  I shook my head.

  “No, I’m staying.”

  She sighed and made me promise to text her the moment we knew anything.

  The echo of their footsteps followed them down the corridor.

  A nurse came to move us from the ER to a surgical waiting area. Maybe she just wanted us out of the way. Maybe another family would be coming in, desperate to hear whether their special someone was going to make it. The hospital machine had to keep on grinding away.

  A few minutes later, a cheerful man of about fifty wearing the now familiar green scrubs of a doctor, entered the room.

  Dr. Linden had a professional warmth, and a calm, kind expression. It was the sort of face that you instantly trusted even if you didn’t want to.

  “We’ve caught the damage early,” he said. “There’s still a 10-15% chance that Jordan will need a further operation, but I’m hopeful that won’t be the case. It’ll be very uncomfortable for him for a couple of days, particularly because the area around the eye is already badly swollen. Healing takes two to six weeks, but because of insertion of gas into the eye during the procedure, Jordan will eventually develop a cataract in his left eye. This is easily treated when the cataract matures in two or three years. With luck, there’ll be no permanent loss of vision.”

  He nodded. We nodded.

  Paul signed the consent papers and we were left alone.

  I didn’t feel like talking, but Paul asked me to explain what had happened. He was raw with grief by the time I’d finished.

  “Ryan Dupont,” he said, over and over. “I cain’t believe it. They were friends.” He shook his head.

  I didn’t have any comfort left to offer him.

  Just for something to do, Paul went to find food and drink. I couldn’t stand any more of that foul coffee, so he promised to hunt for a soda machine.

  I made a promise, too. I promised myself that as soon as Jordan was well enough to travel, as soon as his parole had ended, we were getting the hell out of this poisonous little town. We’d face forward and never look back. We’d find somewhere we could both start again. I’d find a job as a paralegal, and Jordan could finish his ASE training. We’d get our own place and start to build a future together. Maybe Paul could come visit. Maybe we…

  “What are you doin’ here?”

  I looked up and saw Jordan’s mother staring at me, dislike distorting her face.

  “Don’t start with me, lady!”

  She’d just challenged the wrong fucking woman.

  Torrey

  “Don’t start with me, lady!” I snarled. I stared back at Jordan’s mother, my anger molten, becoming volcanic by the second. “I love him. What’s your excuse?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, ready to reply, but the door swung open and Paul returned carrying the sodas and sandwiches. His eyes shuttled between us, taking in my rigid posture, clenched fists, and Gloria’s ugly, accusing glare.

  Without speaking, he handed me the cello-wrapped food and one of the cans, then he looked at his wife.

  “He’s goin’ to be okay, Gloria.”

  I swear, if she looks disappointed for one second I won’t be responsible for my actions.

  She nodded jerkily, acknowledging Paul’s words.

  “He’s in surgery now…”

  “I thought you said he was goin’ to be okay,” she interrupted, and for a moment I thought a saw of flash of something other than hatred, but it was gone too quickly for me to be sure.

  “He is,” Paul replied, quietly, “but they have to repair a detached retina. He also has some broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, cuts and bruises.”

  She snorted and settled herself onto a chair, looking irritated.

  “You called me here for that? I thought … never mind.”

  I was on my feet again, glaring down at her.

  “What? What! That wasn’t enough for you? What the fuck is the matter with you? He was beaten unconscious by four thugs. He could have been killed!”

  She seemed stunned by my attack, but not the words I’d spoken.

  “Are you goin’ to let her talk to me like that?” she gasped outraged, staring at her husband with righteous indignation.

  “If she hadn’t said it, I would,” he snapped, his voice becoming sharper.

  “I’ve driven all this way…” she began.

  “And why’s that?” I snarled. “Why are you here? Why did you even bother?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me like I was shit on her shoe.

  “I don’t answer to you!”

  “I don’t think you know why you’re here,” I said, venomously. “Probably trying to look like you’re doing the right thing again.”

  “He’s my son,” she shot back, furiously. “I’m here to take care of hi
m.”

  Seriously? I laughed out loud, a hard, bitter sound.

  “Like you ‘took care’ of him for the last eight years?”

  Her hands twitched and a muscle beside her eye jumped.

  We were practically nose to nose, ready to slug it out, when we were interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for any of us to reply, a nurse marched into the room, escorting two men in suits.

  They took in Gloria’s furious stare and my angry stance without comment. The nurse just raised her eyebrows. Fighting families—nothing she hadn’t seen before. Hospitals bring out raw emotions, it’s inevitable, like death and taxes.

  “I’m sorry to intrude at this difficult time,” said the taller man, without sounding the least bit sarcastic. I wondered if he’d practiced that tone. “My name is Detective Lopez and this is my colleague Detective Sanders. I wonder if you could take a few minutes to answer some questions.”

  Paul nodded and waved them to a pair of plastic seats.

  I took a deep breath and turned my back on Gloria. If I didn’t look at her, I might be able to calm down slightly. I slumped into a seat and popped the tab on my soda, taking a long drink.

  The police officers took our names and carefully noted our relationships to Jordan. I could see his mother quiver in her seat when Paul described me as Jordan’s fiancée.

  “And this isn’t the first time he’s been targeted,” I snapped, rubbed the wrong way by the slow progression of the interview. “He’s been threatened before and I have a photo of what they did to his truck a couple of months back.”

  I scrolled through the many pictures of me and Jordan on my phone to find the image of his mutilated truck.

  “And before you ask, no he didn’t report it. He was too … he prefers staying away from you guys, for obvious reasons.”

  They looked at the photo, made a note of it and asked me to forward it to them, but otherwise didn’t comment. Then I had to describe again what had happened in the town square outside the bank.

  My voice broke several times while I was retelling the story yet again, and Paul held my hand. Gloria’s eyes nearly leapt out of her head.

  When I’d finished, the detectives looked incredulous.

  “You’re saying he never threw a single punch? Even though four men were beating on him and his girlfriend?”

  I lifted my chin at the insinuation that I was lying.

  “None of them hit me. One restrained me.” I slipped off my cardigan and showed them the bruises on the tops of my arms where Leather Jacket had grabbed me. “I couldn’t get to him … I couldn’t … while the others … while the others brutalized Jordan.” I swallowed back the too fresh fear as the memory fought to swamp me. “And if you look at Jordan’s hands you’ll see that the only bruises are where the one with the cowboy boots stamped on them.”

  Lopez raised his eyebrows and exchanged a look with his colleague.

  Jordan’s mom snorted in disgust and I turned on her, ready to slap that sanctimonious bitch into next week, police or no police.

  “My son is a coward, Detective,” she said, her voice ringing with disgust. “That’s the simple truth.”

  “Gloria!” shouted Paul.

  I was on my feet, shaking with anger.

  “Every time they knocked him down he stood right back up and faced them … every time … until he couldn’t stand up anymore. That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, other than facing your hatred every day.”

  Silence settled around us, until Lopez cleared his throat and announced that he’d be in touch.

  The officers stood up to leave.

  “Wait!” I snapped. “What about the men who attacked Jordan? Have you found them? Jordan knew one of them—Ryan Dupont. Will you go after them, too? What happens to them?”

  “We have one man in custody,” Lopez confirmed.

  “Just one? There were four of them!”

  Sanders gave me an even look. “Ryan Dupont turned himself in, but he refuses to name the others involved. We need to speak to your fiancé to see if he wants to press charges.”

  My lips thinned until I was sure they were a white, bloodless slash across my face. I knew that would never happen. Jordan would never press charges. He’d said he was ‘paying a debt’ earlier. God, I hoped that debt was finally paid up in full because I didn’t know if I could take much more of this.

  Outrage was still pulsing through me, and Gloria was sitting there, the whiff of sulfur foul in the air.

  Lopez nodded again, handed me his card in case I ‘remembered anything else’. As if I could ever forget it: every blow, every kick was imprinted on my brain, burned behind my eyelids.

  As soon as it was just the three of us, I turned to Gloria.

  “Tell me again why you’re here?” I growled at her.

  “Don’t speak to me! I don’t answer to you,” she sneered.

  “Gloria, that’s enough!” barked Paul. “Either you’re here for our son or you’re not. I know that Torrey is.”

  Gloria ground her teeth together.

  “Are you takin’ her side now? The preacher’s trashy daughter, that’s what you called her.”

  My eyes flicked to Paul, and his dull skin reddened, revealing the truth of her hateful words.

  “I was mistaken,” he said. “I’m sorry, Torrey. Sorry about a lot of things. Look, we’re all tired. It’s been a bad, bad day. I think we should go home. Then in the mornin’, we can be back here for Jordan. He’s the important one right now.”

  I thought Gloria was going to argue, but instead she picked up her purse and abruptly left the room.

  Paul offered me a sheepish smile. I didn’t feel like returning it.

  “You go,” I said. “I’m staying.”

  He nodded slowly, but sank back into his seat to wait with me.

  In silence, we watched the hands of the clock shuffle forward. We were joined by a woman who was weeping quietly, her eyes swollen with tears. I glanced at her tiredly, but didn’t have anything to say that could make it better for her. No one could. We could only wait.

  Finally, as the night stretched toward a new day, Dr. Linden reappeared.

  “Everything went as well as can be expected, given the level of swelling around the eye. But there’s a good chance that your son won’t require a further operation.”

  “Can we see him?” I asked.

  “He’s in recovery so I can only let you look through the window, but I’d really suggest that you go home and get some rest yourselves. Come back tomorrow.”

  I wondered why he’d bother to say that.

  We shook hands, and he wished us goodnight. He was probably going home to have dinner with his family. No, it was way too late for that. He’d probably take a snack from the fridge that his wife had left for him, shower, and slip between clean sheets, with a clean conscience and no bad dreams to trouble him. Maybe. We never really know the troubles that haunt the lives of others.

  A nurse showed us to the recovery room, and I stood on tiptoe to look through the window.

  Jordan’s face was turned away from us, so I couldn’t see much. He was hooked up to lots of machines, but he was breathing on his own.

  My throat tightened, and I fought back the tears of relief that threatened to fall.

  Paul touched my arm.

  “We should go home now, get some sleep, like the doc said. Then we can be here for him later.”

  I nodded, and let him lead me from the hospital.

  At the parking lot, I finally spoke.

  “Could you please drive me to the bank in town?”

  Paul looked surprised.

  “The bank? At this hour?”

  “I want to get my car. I’ll be coming to the hospital as soon as I can in the morning.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well, I can do that, darlin’, but I’d be happy to give you a ride to the hospital in the mornin’.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He shook his h
ead sadly but didn’t reply, and we drove home in silence. I ignored the glances he threw my way every couple of minutes. I knew it had taken him a while to warm up to me, but hearing what he’d said, what he’d accused me of—it hurt.

  Once we reached the bank, I slipped out of the car.

  “Thanks,” I said, without looking in his direction.

  I heard him sigh, and then the car pulled away.

  When I arrived back, lights were shining from every window like beacons, or warning lights. Gloria hadn’t drawn the curtains and I could see her going from room to room, observing the changes wrought on her home. It seemed like a violation of my makeshift family, and I had to remind myself it was still her home and not mine, despite everything that had happened in the last couple of months. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay with her in the house, her spite and hatred seeping into the air.

  I climbed out of the car wearily, feeling the ache in my arms and ribs where Leather Jacket had manhandled me.

  I walked in to find Paul hovering in the hallway.

  Then Gloria was suddenly standing in front of me.

  “So you live here now,” she said.

  Her voice carried no inflection, which seemed odd after the way she’d spoken to me at the hospital.

  I nodded, and started to walk around her and up the stairs to Jordan’s room, to our room.

  “Why?” she called after me.

  “What?”

  “Why do you live here?”

  I didn’t know what to make of her question.

  “Because Jordan lives here,” I said, tired and irritated by this bizarre Q&A.

  “It looks like you have all your things here.”

  I locked my eyes on hers. “You’ve been in our bedroom.”

  She seemed almost nervous. “I didn’t know you’d moved in. Paul didn’t tell me…”

  I nodded slowly. “Well, now you know. Stay out of our room.”

  I turned to carry on walking up the stairs.

  “Why aren’t you at the Rectory?” she asked, her tone insistent.

  I stared at her tiredly. “Because my mother made me choose and I chose Jordan. Don’t worry, Gloria, as soon as his parole is done, we’ll be gone. Long gone, nothing but a cloud of dust behind us.”