Chapter 30
Jules
“Well,good morning!”
The deep voice that sounds from the doorway is not the one I expected to hear, but it makes me jump anyway. Gus is on the stretcher, cleaned with antibacterial soap and dressed in his little gown, his feet capped with stretchy blue covers, his hair with a cap.
He turns and smiles at Orie, who’s pumping hand sanitizer into his hand and grabbing the tablet from Gus’s bed.
“Where’s Russell?” Gus asks, and for once, I’m glad for the fact that he’ll ask the questions I’m too nervous to voice.
“Well,” Orie says, clearing his throat and hitting a few buttons on the tablet. “That’s a great question. I know he’s coming, but I’m surprised he’s not here yet.”
In some ways, the surgery has been a blessing. It’s been a great way to keep my mind off everything happening with Russell, and the fact that we haven’t spoken in almost a week. He’s texted me to make sure I got home safely, but after the intensity of our conversation, it’s not like I was going to respond to that.
Last night, I had to keep track of when Gus could eat, when he had to switch to just liquids. Bathed him in the special soapand tried to help him work through his nervousness for the next morning. In some ways, it felt like something special—the night before Christmas, or a road trip—but I also think he could pick up on my anxiety.
I would have given anything to climb into bed with someone else last night. Someone who could hold me, helpmefeel better. For a second, I’d almost caved into texting Russell.
But I didn’t.
Then I woke up at four this morning, and had to make sure Gus didn’t have water after a certain time. Washed him again in the antimicrobial soap, wrestled his sleepy limbs into his clothes to wear to the hospital.
Now, I re-focus on Orie, who’s taken a break in talking to Gus, making sure he understands the surgery and what they’re going to do.
“Is Russell, like—” I speak, trying to keep my hands from balling into fists on my thighs. “—scrubbing in or something?”
Orie’s eyes widen and his brow furrows, the iPad slowly lowering in his hand as he turns toward me, “Uh, no, he didn’t?—”
“I’m not performing the surgery.”
We both look up to see Russell—not in his scrubs or doctor’s coat, but a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt—standing in the doorway to the hospital room.
His hair looks disheveled, and there are bags under his eyes, and somehow, he still looks impossibly handsome. I want to cross the room, take his face in mine, shake him until he just agrees to do the stupid DNA test.
Wouldn’t it be better to know?
After a moment, my initial reaction passes, and I digest what he said.
“You’re not?” I ask, and Russell shakes his head, running a hand over his beard. “It wouldn’t be ethical. I’m too close to thecase. But Orie is every bit the surgeon I am. Your son is in good hands.”
Your son.
“Some might even say I’m better,” Orie says, flashing a grin at Russell, then me, and shrugging, and I get the sense that he’s trying to ease some of the tension in the room.
It’s not working.
“Okay,” I say, because what else can I say? Besides, it strikes me as a good idea—it’s probably risky to operate on someone you care about.
And that thought just makes me crazy again, makes me want to pound on his chest and ask him why, if he cares about Gus enough to bow out as his surgeon, he wouldn’t just do the DNA test, too.
Each time I glance between Russell and my son, it only feels clearer and clearer that there’s a connection there. Same nose, same chin—and those gray eyes.
Now, all the times I wrote off the likeness as being a coincidence feels like a gross act of willful ignorance. Gus even told me that when Russell took him through the market, there were lots of strangers who commented on them looking alike.
Nurses come in and out, taking Gus’s vitals and prepping him for the surgery. Russell stands close to his bed and talks to him in a low voice, saying something I can’t quite make out. Gus laughs and relaxes into his pillow, so whatever it is, I’m grateful.
Then, finally, they come to wheel him into the surgery. I stand at the side of his bed, hand on the rail, until I can’t walk with him any longer.
