I watch as the doctor produces a pouch of saline solution from his bag, and a sterile needle wrapped in plastic. He peels the plastic off and slides the needle into my brother’s arm. Since we don’t have a stand for the pouch of saline, the doctor straps it to the bedpost. I wonder how many times he’s done that before. He seems unconcerned with the makeshift solutions he’s forced to rely on. Considering that he was the first person my husband called in an emergency, I’m betting he gets some steady business from the Corello family.
“Were you able to rest?” the doctor asks, concerned.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, although I really didn’t sleep that well.
“Here,” he says, handing me two pills.
I don’t know what they are, and I’m not sure I should take them. But the doctor hands me a glass of water and encourages me to swallow. I follow his instructions, knowing that he doesn’t mean me any harm. I’m not used to this kind of immediate gratification when it comes to the medical profession. Obviously, a regular doctor would write a prescription, and I would have to go to the pharmacy.
About half an hour later, I’m feeling good. There’s a sense of relaxation that’s entirely chemical, but I don’t care. I’m given a chance to put down the heavy burden of guilt I’ve been carrying, and that’s good enough for me.
I pick up my magazine again and watch as Brandon sleeps. Occasionally, he’ll toss or turn, giving me hope that he mightwake up finally. But he just mutters and continues sleeping, forcing me to be patient.
Around noon, Frankie arrives carrying a tray. He knocks on the door and lets himself in quietly, as if he’s just stepped into the study room at a library.
“How’s he doing?” Frankie whispers.
I shrug, still feeling the mellow effects of the drug. “The doctor says he’s doing better. But he still hasn’t woken up yet.”
“I brought you something to eat,” Frankie says.
He sets the tray down at the foot of the bed. I can see a fruit salad and a sandwich, both of which look amazing. I’m suddenly famished and realize I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten. I grab the fruit and begin to eat. The sweetness hitting all the right spots. Frankie pulls up a chair and sits with me as I devour the lunch.
“Where’s your father?” I ask after I’ve finished my meal.
“I don’t know,” Frankie admits. “I guess he’s in his office.”
“How’s he doing?” I wonder, painfully aware that we’ve left so many things unsaid.
“I don’t know,” Frankie repeats. “How areyoudoing?”
“Okay, I guess,” I respond. “Have you ever been in a gunfight before?”
“No,” Frankie says, but reconsiders after a moment. “Well, there was one time when I was five.”
“You were in a gunfight when you were five!” I exclaim louder than I meant to.
We both glance at Brandon to see if my sudden excitement will wake him up. He doesn’t stir.
“My dad and I were eating at a restaurant and someone shot out the window,” Frankie says.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Dad told me to hide under the table,” Frankie responds. “Which I did. I didn’t see much. I just remember how loud the gunshots were and how frightened everyone else was.”
“Were you frightened?” I press.
“No,” he says. “My dad was there. I just assumed that he would take care of me.”
I reach over and pat him on the hand.
“What did I know?” Frankie continues with a sigh. “I was just a kid.”
“He did take care of us,” I remind him.
Frankie nods, seeming to come to terms with something heavy. “He really does care about you.”
“I know,” I say.
