Michael, Reinvented

by Diana Copland

  Michael backed away, watching the paramedic near Gil’s feet open the red bag and remove nitrile gloves, pulling them on while the other cautiously moved the arm Gil had over his face to study the knot forming above his right eyebrow. Michael didn’t want to see the damage to his leg, but it was impossible not to look. The paramedic near his feet straightened the misshapen leg cautiously, and Michael cringed, but Gil didn’t respond at all. The young man pulled something else from the kit, removing a thick square bandage. His hands flew efficiently as he tore the plastic wrap from the bandage, then placed it over the open wound and pressed. Blood welled around the edges as he used a roll of tape to secure it in place, then added another bandage on top of it. Michael closed his eyes against the vision now seared behind his eyelids—torn flesh and so much blood.

  The three firemen carefully moved the rest of the long planks and twisted metal out of the way while the paramedics worked feverishly over Gil. The one at his feet wrapped more bandages tightly around his leg, then fastened two long, rigid plastic strips, one on the outside and one between, tied at his knee and ankle. The other grabbed equipment Michael didn’t recognize from the kit and returned to Gil’s head.

  “McCrory,” he said briskly, and the paramedic by Gil’s feet moved to join his coworker, his body blocking Michael’s view. He shifted in time to see them angle Gil’s head, one holding it in place while the first inserted something into his mouth. Michael crossed his arms, his nails digging into his upper arms. He’d seen enough TV medical shows to understand Gil was being intubated.

  “I’m in.” The first man pulled something from the tube, and the second connected a breathing bag. They attached a cervical collar around Gil’s neck and fastened it in place. The bruise on his forehead was spreading, and there was a knot the size of a golf ball under his usually smooth skin.

  The paramedic who had wrapped his wound was speaking into a radio attached to the shoulder of his uniform, and Michael heard him say “…compound fracture of the right tibia and fibula” and “…contusion above right eye, with loss of consciousness.” He turned and looked up at Michael. “How far did he fall?”

  The image of the scaffolding collapsing passed through Michael’s mind. “Three stories.”

  The paramedic went back to his radio. “Victim fell three stories with impact to front of his head above his right eye. He’s been intubated. Request transport to Sacred Heart trauma unit.” The radio popped and a voice responded, but Michael didn’t understand what was being said.

  A large arm came around Michael’s chest, and Vernon pulled Michael back into his hard body, holding him tight. “He’ll be okay.” He pressed his lips against the side of Michael’s head. “He’s the toughest son of a bitch I know. He’ll be okay.”

  Michael couldn’t take his eyes off the bruise on Gil’s head, the way the big body lay limp while the five men worked together to roll him slightly to the side and slip a long plastic board beneath him.

  Dimly Michael was aware of another siren stopping on the other side of the house, and moments later two more paramedics appeared, pulling a rolling gurney between them. One medic pulled his pack together and gestured the others into place around Gil.

  “On three,” he said, then counted softly. On three the seven men picked Gil up and transferred him to the gurney. The medics quickly strapped him into place.

  “Where we taking him?” one of them asked.

  “Sacred Heart Trauma. They’re expecting him.”

  They pulled the gurney back up and began to walk away, and Michael broke free from Vern’s embrace, going after them. “I’m coming with you.”

  One paramedic opened the doors on the back of an ambulance, and the two men loaded the gurney into the back. All Michael could see was the bottom of Gil’s big boots.

  “I’m coming with you,” he repeated, attempting to climb in through the doors. The medic caught his shoulder, stopping him, and Michael turned on him. He must’ve looked fierce, because the man held up his hands.

  “You can’t ride in the back, sir. It’s the rules.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your rules,” Michael retorted, his voice trembling. “I’m going with him.”

  “You can ride up front with me,” the other medic offered. “But we need to move.”

  “Michael?”

  He turned back to Vern. “I’m going with them to the hospital.”

  “We’ll meet you there,” Vern called after him.

  Michael climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door.

  “I’m Michael.” He offered his hand to the driver.

  “I’m Blaine.” He squeezed Michael’s hand. “Let’s move.”

  Blaine started the engine, turned on the siren, and pulled forward to the end of the drive.

  “Seat belt, Michael.”

  He hastily strapped in. There was a small window between the cab and the rear, and Michael turned, staring through it. Gil was still unmoving, even as the paramedic started an IV in his arm.

  “His name is Gil?”

  “Yeah. Gilbert Chandler.”

  “You’re good friends?”

  Michael had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. “Yes. Very.”

  Blaine didn’t say anything else, didn’t offer any platitudes about how Gil would be just fine. Part of Michael wanted him to, even if the words were meaningless. The haste with which they’d gotten Gil ready to transport and into the back of the ambulance had been both reassuring and terrifying. Reassuring because of their obvious expertise, terrifying because of what they weren’t saying but what Michael could see on their faces. “He’s critical, isn’t he?”

  Blaine glanced at him, then turned a stoic face forward. “I’m not a doctor, Michael. There’s no way for me to know that.”

  Michael inhaled and forced himself to hold the steadying breath for a moment. “Yeah, okay.” He licked his dry lips, but it didn’t help much. “Is the trauma unit different from the regular ER?”

  Blaine took a moment before answering. “Yes, it’s specifically for more serious injuries.”

  Michael wasn’t stupid; he knew that. He guessed he’d just needed to hear someone say it, so he could wrap his head around it. Big, powerful, happy, teasing Gil was seriously injured. This was serious. The man who just that morning had followed him to work, then given him a smartass smile and salute before he drove away, was lying in the back of an ambulance, and he wasn’t moving. Inside his core, Michael began to tremble.

  Blaine pulled the ambulance into a short bay behind the hospital.

  “Please keep off to the side.” Blaine put the ambulance in park. “If you can remain out of the way, they’ll let you stay longer.”

  Michael got out of the ambulance when Blaine did, hurrying to the back, but followed his instructions and stayed out of the way. Gil was removed from the back by the paramedics and wheeled through the doors, and the medical staff started talking back and forth. Michael didn’t understand most of what they were saying. He heard “CT” and something about a pupil being fixed and dilated, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. They rushed Gil inside and into a large, brilliantly lit, curtained area. The staff, with the help of the paramedics, transferred him from the gurney to a larger bed. A nurse immediately began to cut away his filthy clothes, and Michael acknowledged the slight nod Blaine sent his way as he and his partner left. Michael stood off in one corner as the rags were removed from Gil’s body, as the big legs and hips came into view. The splint and bandage were left in place on his leg, and Michael tried to ignore the blood seeping through the bandages.

  “Okay, what have we got?”

  A slender woman wearing gold wire-framed glasses, with brown hair cut in a soft, modified shag, entered the area. She had on a white lab coat over pale blue scrubs, and her ID tag read Dr. Gail Shumway.

  “Compound fracture of the right tibia and fibula and a contusion with swelling above the right eye, with possible TBI,” a male attendant responded. “He’s been unconsc
ious since the fall, which was at least thirty minutes ago, and his right pupil is fixed and dilated. BP is 156 over 95. Pulse sixty-five.”

  Another nurse was standing near Gil’s head. “We also have a small amount of blood in his right ear.”

  “We’ll need to get a CT first. Call Angelo in ortho for a consult on the leg. We’ll talk to neurology once we know what we’re dealing with.” She sounded so calm and competent that some of the knots in Michael’s stomach began to unravel.

  They cut Gil’s T-shirt off, and Michael noticed for the first time that he was wearing plain white Jockeys. His cock and balls made a soft bulge between his thighs, and Michael wanted them to cover him, to do something to preserve his modesty. This was so unfair, to leave him exposed like that when he was helpless.

  “Can’t you cover him, please?”

  Everyone in the room turned to him.

  A male nurse in dark blue scrubs approached him. His dark skin gleamed in the lights and his chocolate-brown eyes were kind. “Sir, you don’t belong back here. Let me take you to the waiting room—”

  Michael held his ground, seeking out the doctor’s face. “Cover him, please. He’ll be cold. And he wouldn’t be comfortable with all of these people… seeing him like this—”

  To his horror, Michael’s voice broke and tears blurred his vision.

  Dr. Shumway crossed around the table and came to him, holding out her hand. “I’m Gail Shumway.”

  Michael had to swallow several times before he was able to speak. He shook her hand. “Michael Crane.”

  “And he’s your friend?”

  He nodded. “Yes. His name is Gil Chandler.”

  “I promise that we’ll cover Gil with a warm blanket as soon as we can, but this is the easiest way for us to assess his injuries. Are you by any chance his medical representative?”

  “No. That would be another friend of ours, Jackson Henry. I’m sure he’s on his way.”

  “Good. And now you really are going to have to go out to the waiting room. Gil is headed for a CT scan, and I’ll come out and speak to Mr. Henry just as soon as we know anything conclusive about his head injury, all right?”

  “Aren’t you going to fix his leg?”

  She slipped her arm behind him, gently guiding Michael toward the doors. “Just as soon as we can. Right now, his head injury takes precedence.” Michael paused in the doorway, looking back at the big man who lay so uncharacteristically still under the bright lights.

  “Please cover him so he doesn’t get cold. Please.”

  She turned to one of the staff. “Sandy, please get a warm blanket to cover Mr. Chandler. And now Lee will see you to the waiting room, all right, Michael?”

  The male nurse grinned at him, his teeth very white against his dark skin.

  Michael looked back one last time, willing Gil to lift his head, to open his eyes. At that point he’d have been happy if he moved his fingers, but there was nothing.

  “This way.” Lee caught Michael’s elbow and pulled him gently from the room, taking him down a short hallway. Michael allowed himself to be led to another set of doors, and Lee pressed a large silver button on the wall. The doors swung silently open, and Michael found himself standing in a small waiting room done all in shades of green. “Here you go. There’s a small coffee bar just around the corner and a café in the basement.”

  “No bar?” Michael was only half joking.

  Lee chuckled. “Don’t I wish, but no, unfortunately.” He turned to go back through the doors.

  “Lee?”

  He stopped, an expectant look on his attractive face.

  “Please—” Michael’s throat thickened again, and he fought to get the words out. “—he’s important to a lot of people.”

  Lee’s smile gentled. “We’ll take good care of him. And you’re lucky; Dr. Shumway is the best. She’s completely thorough.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Sure.”

  With one last smile, he disappeared back through the double doors, and Michael found himself standing in the waiting room, alone. After stumbling to a line of chairs upholstered in spruce-green fabric, he sat heavily, rubbing his temples. He closed his eyes but didn’t leave them closed long, however; when he did, he kept seeing the scaffolding collapsing on a loop, over and over again. He whimpered softly, his heart aching.

  “Please, God,” he whispered. He wasn’t much for praying, and the words felt awkward in his mouth. “Please. Please.”

  He wasn’t even sure exactly what he was praying for. He just knew Gil needed help, and if there was a God and he was just, then he’d listen.

  TIME SEEMED to have lost all meaning to Michael. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there alone, repeating “please” over and over again in his mind. Footsteps finally filtered through, and he looked up as David and Jackson came down the hall. He must’ve looked really bad, because David rushed forward and knelt in front of him, pulling him into his arms.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” David sighed, squeezing him tight. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

  Michael’s eyes began to sting again, but he refused to cry. If he let go, he was afraid he’d never stop. He pressed his forehead into David’s shoulder, squeezing his upper arms. One of David’s hands lifted to his hair; his other arm squeezed his shoulders.

  Finally Michael sat back, rubbing his hands over his face.

  “Are you all right?” David asked him, his voice soft. He sat in the chair beside him.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Michael ran his fingers up through his hair, not even caring how it looked when he was done.

  “Michael, I don’t want to push.” Jackson looked like he regretted speaking, but needed to. “But I have to know….”

  “Jackson.” David shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Babe, I have to figure out what was wrong with the equipment. Then I have to call Gil’s family. I need to know what to tell them.”

  “It’s okay.” Michael stretched his neck to one side, trying to get the ache out of it. It didn’t help. “What do you need to know, Jackson?”

  Jackson pulled a chair over and sat in front of him, his extraordinary blue eyes red-rimmed and solemn. “Just tell me what happened.”

  Michael inhaled and blew out a noisy breath. “I went to the house so that Richard could okay the paint colors. Then I went out through the kitchen because the scaffolding covered the back of the house. Vern was sanding around the windows on the first level, and the two new guys were on scaffolding up on the second floor, patching the plaster between the beams. Gil was on a three-story unit on the main patio area, sanding the beams at the very top of the house. I told him Richard had okayed the colors, and he said he’d be right down. He swung over the top of the scaffolding tower, and….” He stopped, seeing it again in his head. David grabbed his hand, holding on. Michael closed his eyes. “There was this weird noise, like the scaffolding was groaning. Then it shook and I reached out, and Gil….” He had to stop for a minute, take several breaths. “Gil yelled at me to get back, and there was a snapping sound….”

  “A snapping sound?”

  “Yeah, like something broke.”

  “Metal or wood?”

  Michael frowned. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but now that he did, there was no mistake. “Metal.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure.”

  “Okay, then what happened?”

  “Then the whole thing just… collapsed straight down.”

  “It went straight down?” Jackson pressed, as if to clarify. “It didn’t lean?”

  “No, it collapsed down right on top of itself. This big cloud of dust shot up, and when it cleared, Gil was under part of it—” He stopped, unable to continue. He held his hand up, shook his head.

  “That’s okay.” David squeezed his hand. He looked at Jackson. “That can be enough for now, can’t it? Maybe Gil will have more to add—later.”

  Jackson nod
ded. They heard voices in the hall, and moments later Vern and Manny came into view. They hurried their pace when Jackson stood up.

  “How is he?” Vern asked. He looked like he’d aged a decade in the last hour.

  “We don’t know anything yet.” Jackson reached out and caught Vern’s big bicep, squeezing. “But he’s strong as an ox, man. You know that better than anyone.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed one of his gnarled, bent hands over his jaw. He looked at Michael. “How you holding up, baby boy?”

  Michael shrugged. Why the question made his throat tight, he couldn’t say.

  “I need to make a couple of calls,” Jackson said. “I’ll be right back.”

  The others looked at each other, then settled in to wait.

  THEY SAT in a group, pulling the chairs close to one another as if making them into a huddle could protect them from anything worse happening. David went to get everyone coffee, but after a single sip, Michael didn’t touch his again; every time he looked at the cup, he could see Gil’s big hand curled around it, holding it out to him with a wide, teasing grin. His right leg kept shaking, but he couldn’t seem to stop it, short of holding it down. The afternoon grew longer and the sky outside the windows darkened, and the only person who’d come through the double doors that led to the trauma unit was a woman with forms for Jackson to fill out, authorizing treatment. Every minute that passed felt like an hour, and finally Michael couldn’t sit still any longer. He shot up out of the chair, feeling the eyes of his friends as he crossed to the windows. He wrapped his arms tightly, protectively over his chest as he stared out into the darkened parking lot. Moments later hands landed gently on his shoulders.

  “He’s going to be okay.”

  Michael looked back, surprised to find Manny behind him. “How do you know?”

  Manny’s hands lingered for a minute; then he squeezed before letting them fall away. It was the first time Manny had ever touched him.

  “When I was in the hospital—this one, actually—” Manny gave a self-conscious shrug. “Vern just kept saying ‘You’re going to be okay.’ Over and over. One day, when I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, I asked him how he could know that. I didn’t fucking feel okay. And then he said—‘I know you feel like shit, and I know this is hard, but you’re never going to be okay if you keep dwelling on the fact that you aren’t.’ It took a long time. But one day, I realized I was okay. And Vern said, ‘See, I told ya.’ He’s such an asshole.”