Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
What struck me most was the silence.
Aside from the predictable muted sound of rubber-soled nursing shoes, phones ringing, and the little beeps of machines, there was nothing.
No talking.
No TVs on.
Nothing.
Curious, I stopped in the door at the room at the end of the hall, finding a doctor standing with his back to me, tall, graying, talking in what could only be called soothing tones to Jenny whose arms were crossed over her chest, her hand raised to pull at the pearl at her earlobe.
"As I said last month, Mrs. Ericsson, I am afraid there is likely never going to be any new news for me to give you."
"I understand, but I still want to have you dropping in each month. Even if you never find anything new to tell me. You never know. The nurses told me that you never know. Miracles happen."
The doctor took a deep breath. From behind him, it seemed like a sigh. Like he was trying to find patience.
"They really shouldn't be saying those kinds of things. We run on science here. And the science, the medicine, says this is as good as we can expect."
Jenny's shoulders fell, and I had an uncharacteristic urge to grab the good doctor by the back of his neck and shake him, demanding he not kill what little hope the woman obviously had, remind him that she had clearly been through enough, that it wasn't a terrible thing for people to have some goddamn hope in life.
"Thank you again, doctor," Jenny said, her tone trembling a bit, and when I looked closer, she was fighting back tears.
"I will see you next month," he said, sounding frustrated, but resigned as he turned.
I didn't know him from Adam. And, sure, maybe he was just trying to be realistic, but I gave him a hard look as he moved past me anyway, hoping he took it for what it was. A silent warning. To use kid gloves with her in the future.
"I'm sorry I was crazy this morning," Jenny said, voice low.
"Stop apologizing," I demanded softly, moving in since she seemed set on staying where she was.
When I passed the white curtain giving the bed privacy from the open door, I found a man lying in the oversized bed, body made small by likely being there a good, long time, his face drawn, his skin pale, maybe even a little jaundiced. Vitamin D was great, but there was no substitute for some actual sunlight. And with the high tree line outside his bedroom casting the whole side of the building in shadow, I doubt any came in through the panes.
He was older, past middle age with steel gray mixed in his blond hair. I didn't have to see his eyes opened to know they were blue. Bright blue. A color Jenny had inherited.
Bobby Eames.
Jenny's father.
And he was in a bed in a rehabilitation center with a doctor who said he was never going to improve.
"Jenny..." I said, moving toward where she had rested her ass on the edge of the window seat.
"It's my dad," she told me, her eyes on him as she spoke.
"What happened?"
She shook her head at that, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath. "My mom was driving them back from the bar. He was drunk. He didn't realize she was drunker."
Shit.
I knew where this was heading.
But she seemed to need to say it.
Because she likely wasn't allowed to normally. It wouldn't fit the right image. Drunk parents in a car accident.
What might the voters think?
Never mind that Jenny clearly needed to ease the burden of knowledge, share the facts with someone.
I moved over toward the window, lowering myself down next to her, pressing a hand to her knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"They were upset because they weren't invited to the wedding," she told me, pressing her lips together as her eyes closed, trying to hold it together. "And they got drunk and didn't call a cab because, well, there was likely no money left after the bar. So my mom drove, took a turn too sharp, plowed through a guardrail, and the car fell into a ditch fifteen feet below."
"Fuck, sweetheart," I said, moving my arm around her back instead, pulling her closer.
"She died at impact. They airlifted my father. He had all kinds of surgeries. Had compound fractures in both legs, a punctured lung, his arm bones had nearly crumbled, three busted ribs. And he hit his head. They didn't worry so much about the head right away. They told me head wounds were funny. They acted unpredictably. They said we just had to wait for the swelling to go down to really get an idea of how things might be."
"He had swelling in his brain?" I asked, knowing what that meant, knowing how many men I had known to have suffered that in the service.