I move to the bedside, eager to give whatever assistance I can. The doctor removes a pair of scissors from his bag and cuts Brandon’s shirt off. He continues working, snipping through fabric until Brandon is fully naked.
“I’ll go get him some new clothes,” Francisco offers.
Now that all his clothing has been removed, the doctor is free to examine every inch of Brandon’s skin. He touches a few locations gently. I can see dozens of dark purple bruises and some more recent red welts. It breaks my heart to know that my brother’s been abused this way.
“It looks like he has a broken wrist,” the doctor says finally.
I hold my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I’d like to stabilize his torso, and I think there’s a good chance he has a concussion,” the doctor concludes.
I sniff, wanting to cry but feeling all tapped out. Francisco returns with some of his own pajamas for Brandon to wear. The doctor gets started wrapping Brandon’s wrist, and both Francisco and I are needed to help him gently bandage Brandon’s rib cage.
“I’d like to run a few more tests,” the doctor says, looking at me gravely. “But you might want to step out of the room. You look like you’re about to collapse yourself.”
“What do you mean? What kind of tests?” I demand.
“I’d like to draw some blood to check for poison,” the doctor responds.
“Oh my God,” I cry, my knees weak. “Do you think he was poisoned?”
“He’s unresponsive,” the doctor answers. “It’s not unheard of for poison to be used, but I just want to be sure it’s only a concussion.”
Francisco wraps one arm around me, leading me to the door. “We’ll be right outside,” he says.
I feel numb and allow myself to be led out into the hallway again. Outside, I simply lean against my husband, needing his support. He strokes my hair, making sure that I know I’m cared for. I thought that when we found Brandon, my troubles would be over. But now it seems like they’ve only just begun. What ifCarlo Andretti and his men did real damage to Brandon? What if he slips into a coma and never wakes up?
I know Francisco can tell where my thoughts are headed because he tilts my chin up so that I’m looking into his eyes. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers.
“This isn’t the life I wanted,” I say, unaware of how painful my words might be. “After Dad went missing, and then turned up dead, I swore I would never get involved in anything like this ever again. And now here I am, in the thick of it.”
“Shh,” he says, putting both hands on my shoulders and smoothing his palms down my arms. “Everything is going to be okay.”
“This isn’t want I wanted for Brandon,” I moan, unable to help myself. Francisco is tough. I know he can handle it. Brandon, on the other hand, isn’t cut out for this kind of thing. “He’s innocent,” I explain. “He didn’t know anything about you or our father.”
Francisco looks at me, the concern in his eyes genuine. I can see a light switch go off deep within his gaze as he seems to come to make a decision. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but I don’t have the brain power to worry about anything else but my brother right now.
“I’ll fix it,” he says simply, and then walks away.
I come unmoored from my post for a moment, deprived of his support. But then I straighten my shoulders, determined to see this through on my own. My brother needs me, and I’m not going to rest until I know he’s well.
CHAPTER 44
FRANCISCO
My head is swimming. I’d like nothing more than to step into the shower and afterward, indulge in some scotch like my son is doing. But I want to get Marlena squared away first. Having the doctor see to her brother is a good first step, but I’d feel better if she took care of herself as well.
Seeing her suffer isn’t something I’m prepared to do. I have contacts, and I have options. I just need to find one that fits the situation. After declaring my intention to fix things for her, I go downstairs to my office.
The house is still on high alert. No one’s drinking in the kitchen or playing video games in the den. They’re all standing at attention, posted throughout the house ready for action. Frankie is sitting on a couch in the living room staring at the wall. The television is dark, and the glass of scotch is nowhere to be found.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Hmm?” he responds, tilting his head slowly toward me as if it weighs a thousand pounds.
“Go to sleep,” I say.
He sniffs, forcing his eyes open and then shut. He follows my instructions, getting up slowly and heading for the stairs. At least, one of my family members is taking care of themselves.
