Alex
“So,mytentativediagnosisis a torn rotator cuff. Based on my exam, I’m suspecting it’s only a partial tear, but we’ll write you up a referral for an MRI—that’ll tell us for sure whether it’s a full or partial tear, and you can follow up with your PCP for a treatment plan from there. Until then, ice, ibuprofen, and rest. Alright, Nico?”
I watch as Nico nods stiffly at the physician’s assistant standing in front of him, his jaw clenched tight. There’s an older male nurse on Nico’s left side, carefully adjusting the sling they fitted to him to keep his left arm supported and less mobile.
They’ve been friendly and helpful here at the urgent care clinic, where we came to have Nico’s shoulder injury assessed. But that hasn’t done much to mitigate Nico’s anxiety. After everything that happened today, I don’t blame him. All that shit at the library was more than terrifying—seeing the pure rage and hatred in Patrick’s eyes, knowing it was directed at Nico, panicking myself as I tried to protect him, to put myself between him and that monster. Then the aftermath—talking to the police and Nico’s colleagues at the library, filing a report with the police to document what happened, explaining to the medical team how his shoulder was injured. I did what I could to help, but I feel like I’ve been drowning right alongwith Nico, watching him struggle all afternoon.
And now, I wish I could be right there next to him, holding his hand to keep him calm. The exam room is too small, however, and I had to move away a few minutes ago to let the PA and nurse do their jobs. I shift uneasily on my feet as the nurse finishes what he was doing, says a few words to the PA, and gathers up the box the arm sling came in and leaves. Then I quickly slip back into my spot next to Nico and take his hand with a gentle squeeze.
“Almost done,” I say softly, and he lets out a shuddering breath and leans against me.
The PA tucks his tablet under his arm. “Take your time in here, no rush. The paperwork and MRI referral will be at the front,” he says. Then he leaves the room as well, and it’s just the two of us again.
I turn and press a light kiss to Nico’s temple. “Ready to go?” I ask softly, and Nico nods without a word.
I slip my arm around his waist to help him stand, and together, we head out of the exam room and down the hallway to the waiting room. He’s not super steady on his feet, but we make it through the set of double doors into the waiting room. My mom is sitting in one of the chairs close to the entrance, and she sees us almost immediately and stands up to meet us at the reception desk.
Nico stiffens as my mom pulls out her credit card and hands it to the receptionist to pay the bill. She glances at him with a kind smile and reaches over to set her hand softly on his upper arm.
“Don’t you even worry about it, sweetie. Okay?” she says.
I tighten my arm around him as I feel him tense up even more, but he nods and says a feeble “Thank you, Ms. Hayes” in return.
My mom smiles again and then turns back to the receptionist, who hands her several papers.
“The top page there is the receipt,” the receptionist explains. “Under that, there’s the referral for the MRI and then a list ofimaging clinics. Unfortunately, you’ll have to go to Omaha or Lincoln since we don’t have one here in Redland, but they’re usually able to get patients in within a couple of days.”
My mom nods and then asks a few more questions as she looks over the papers. Next to me, Nico shrinks a little as the subject of cost comes up, and I hear him inhale a short breath when the receptionist mentions the MRI is “usually only three or four hundred dollars” if paying out of pocket. My mom nods again as though that’s a good deal—and maybe it is, I have no frame of reference for these things—then hands me the papers to hold onto.
After my mom thanks the receptionist, we turn and head toward the exit. Nico’s still quiet, but he seems to be walking steadier, and so I let my arm drop from around his waist and slip my hand into his instead as we make our way through the parking lot.
“We’re still planning to stop at the police station on the way home, is that right?” my mom asks just before we reach her truck.
“Um...” Nico’s hand grips mine, and I give him a gentle squeeze. “We—we should, right?” He can’t seem to look at me or my mom, and I start to answer, but he cuts in. “But I can’t be late for my interview. Do we have time? What time is it?”
Slightly ahead of us, my mom pulls out her phone, and her expression softens as she glances back at us. “We’ve got plenty of time. It’s just after four thirty,” she reassures, adding, “But also, sweetie, if you need to reschedule, I’m sure Vera will understand.”
He immediately shakes his head as though rescheduling isn’t even an option. “No, I don’t want to do that.”
“I understand, sweetie. And don’t worry, we have plenty of time,” my mom repeats, slipping her phone back into her pocket.
Nico gives another nod, though it’s rushed and I can feel him swaying again. I move a little closer and wrap my arm back around his waist for more support, and together, we walk the rest of the way to the truck. I help him into the back seat, fasten his seat beltfor him since the sling makes everything difficult and awkward, and then I settle into the middle seat to be close to him. He leans on me and closes his eyes as the truck starts moving.
I’m not entirely sure what’s running through his head right now—whether he’s in a daze or whether he’s forcing himself to relive the last few hours, the terrifying moments at the library and after, all the heaviness and anxiety and stress. I am sure, however, that today has only shown how strong and resilient he really is, even if he can’t see that yet.
Gently, so as not to hurt him, I lift my arm up around his shoulders and hug him to me, and I let my cheek rest on the top of his head.
My mom drives more carefully than usual, taking all the turns slowly, braking more gradually. Still, we’re at the police station within about ten minutes. The next half hour or so after that is a blur. We head inside, drop off a copy of Nico’s discharge papers to go with the report we filed earlier, and talk with Officer Morris for a few minutes. She gives us an update that sends Nico into another mini spiral—clinging tightly to me as he struggles to breathe again. Apparently, Patrick was arrested at a local bar and taken into custody about an hour ago, while we were still waiting at the urgent care center. He’s being charged with assault and disorderly conduct, both based on the events of today at the library and on Nico’s report of what happened last Friday at his mom’s house. Officer Morris asks Nico a few more questions, which he somehow manages to answer more bravely than I think I’d ever be able to in his situation. Then we’re back in the truck and on our way home, him leaning into me again, his eyes screwed shut as he takes shallow breaths.
My mom’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and I give her a tight smile and then close my eyes and settle my cheek on the top of Nico’s head.
“I know that wasn’t easy. I’m so proud of you,” I whisper to him. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says on a breath, his voice clouded with shame and guilt and embarrassment. He makes a small sound and buries his head in the crook of my shoulder, and his good hand presses into my thigh for a few seconds, as though maybe whatever’s running through his mind isn’t all that great.
I wish I knew exactly what to say to take away all his pain and give him all the confidence he deserves to have. But if I’ve learned anything at all in the last few weeks, it’s that I can still give him what he needs, even if I can’t find the right words. I just have to be here for him.
So I squeeze his shoulders again, carefully, and then I kiss the top of his head and start talking quietly. I give him every reassurance I can think of to uplift him. I even dramatically pull out my phone to check the time and remind him how exceedinglypunctualhe is and that he’ll be very on time for his interview. That earns me a snicker and a shake of his head and some mumbled “pfft, whatever.”
