Will I lose my brother? Will he be okay? Will his mind be okay? Will his body? Can he come back from this? Will he walk again? Will he still be the same brother I always knew? Or will he be different? Can I even handle different?
My shoulders curl forward, shrinking inward as I bawl like a fucking baby. She leans closer, muttering words I can’t understand as I wrap my arm around her and cry into her scrubs. Her hand circles my back. She mutters stuff I can’t understand, or maybe I don’t want to.
“Look at me, Papito.”
I don’t want to. My heart hurt. My eyes burn and my nose stings. Not that I care about how I look, ‘cuz I don’t. I can’t handle any more bad news. It’s been too much all at once. Overwhelming and unfair.
“LOOK AT ME.”
Not a scream but a very insistent command. When her hand touches the underside of my chin, she pulls it up, forcing me to connect with her. To see her blurry face through watery eyes.
“Your brother is good. Don’t worry. I’m here, and I take very good care of my patients.” Her gaze is so intense. Her words are so assuring, I want to melt into them. Believe every little breath that comes with them. “You’re here too. He needs his family. Friends. People who love him.”
My grip on her loosens. The need to touch something real when I’m too scared to touch my brother is fading. Her hand falls. The moment is passing.
“But he doesn’t know I’m here. He’s . . .” Not brain dead. She said it. He’s good. Whatever that means. He doesn’t look good. He looks horrible. Swollen, purple, and bruised everywhere.
“He knows. Trust me, Papito, he knows you’re here. Just talk to him. Tell him what’s up. He’s listening even if it looks like he isn’t.”
I nod, looking from her to him, and back. A ragged breath seeps out of my body, and I fall back in my chair. Wipe my eyes with my thumbs and run the back of my hand under my nose.
“Good boy.”
It slips out. She called me a good boy. Not erotic or slurred when coming. Yeah, I’ve gotten that a time or two. But she’s authoritative and commanding. As if she’s not a foot shorter than me and a hundred pounds lighter.
“Now sitting here staring at el hermano isn’t helping. Go. Get some food and a shower, I’ll take care of him for the next twelve hours.”
She smiles like she isn’t kicking me out of my brother’s room when, in fact, she is. Her last touch on my shoulder is searing into my body. And just like that, it feels different. The storm of my emotion is passing, but a new one settles in. Her.
“Come on.” She crooks her finger at me, walks to the open door, and waits. I look from her to Em and back. “He’s going to be fine on my watch. Now go. You stink.”
Shocked and a bit out of it, I rise from the chair my ass has been plastered to. My back pops, and my hips are stiff. Her eagle eyes take it all in.
It feels wrong leaving him, since I’m the reason he’s in here. She doesn’t hesitate. Grabbing my wrist, she hustles me out of the room. She only lets go when we hit the hallway and right before she closes his door.
“You don’t know this, but I’ve been in the ICU for four years. I’m a damn good nurse.”
Her stance is planted, blocking his door. She’s easily a foot shorter than me. But she doesn’t notice or care. Her index finger jabs me in the chest. Her long fake nail hits squarely between my muscles and hurts a bit.
“Now is not the time to be wasting your energy being all sad and sitting there smelling like shit. He’s going to need you more at home than up here. Here.” She points to the ground. “He has me. Home, he has you. Understand?”
“Yeah, but?—”
She wags her finger so close to my face that it’s hard to focus. Her bracelets dangle like chimes in the wind.
“No, yeah, but. I got this. You got this. We’re a team. But you stay out of my way.”
I’m so confused.
My gaze moves past her, looking around for help. No one seems to care. All are preoccupied with other patients or other things. No one cares that she’s bossing me around, much less kicking me out. Aren’t my parents paying for all this? Can’t I stay as long as I want so long as it’s within visiting hours?
“Okay, now go. Don’t come back for several hours.”
Her hand on my chest draws my eyes back to her. She’s serious. A line between her eyebrows. A frown on those juicy lips, now glowing from the silky gloss under the fluorescent lights.
As a siren or alarm sounds, a code blue is called. Whatever that is. A bunch of the staff go running, including her. Not before she shoves me toward the exit.
“Don’t worry, Papito.”
