She kept her eyes on the road. “I’m . . . I’m okay. Sorry. I just . . .whathappened?”
“I don’t know much either. Just that he’s in surgery. Mom said he lost a lot of blood. She said I better come right away.”
Sascha’s eyes froze open with shock. And then they filled.
“No. Phoenix? How can this be?”
“I know,” he said, his voice flattened by emotion.
She sped through the automated toll lane, seeming not to care that she blew away the speed limit.
“Could they be wrong? I mean, if it was a train accident, how do they even know it’s him?”
“Shit, don’t say that,” he groaned. He rocked back. “I don’t want to picture him so fucked up that we can’t even tell it’s him.” The idea of Phoenix on the ground, crushed by massive metal wheels made him nauseous. It was as if half of him had been crushed.
She put the George Washington Bridge behind them and headed downtown into Manhattan. They rode in silence through city traffic. At stoplights, he glanced around, half expecting to see Phoenix striding along the sidewalk.
Finally she pulled up to the emergency room entrance. “You go first. I’ll meet you in there.”
“Thanks.” He bolted out of the car.
She lowered the passenger’s window and shouted. “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”
Without a response, he jogged through the emergency room doors. He could only hope they’d arrived in time.
Caleb found his mother seated in the waiting area. She got to her feet and met him with an unsteady gait. He wrapped an arm around her and frowned.
“He’s not—?” he asked, alarmed at Mom’s puffy eyes.
She shook her head but clung to him, almost as inconsolable as when Dad had died. Then she pulled back and regained her composure. He recognized the effort it’d taken her, and once her stoic expression was locked in place, it looked like nothing could shake it.
Sascha hurried towards them.
The older woman looked up as she approached. “Hello, Sascha. Thanks for driving Caleb.”
“Mrs. Walker, I’m so sorry. How’s Phoenix?”
His mother shook her head, eyes filling. “Not good.”
Sascha looked from his mom to Caleb, fear in her eyes. “Don’t tell me—”
“They, um, amputated . . . the train amputated his leg and hand,” Mom said.
Caleb had seen clients swoon over the sight of blood, but not him. He considered himself tough as steel. But now, he felt his stomach churning.
“He’s going to survive, right?” Sascha said.
“As long as he makes it, nothing else matters,” his mom murmured.
“He’s a fighter. He’s gotta be okay,” Caleb said, as much to himself as anyone else.
When his father died unexpectedly, Caleb had descended into anger. He became wildly volatile, swinging through moods as if shifting gears in his truck. Phoenix grieved, yet exhibited an inner strength that drew him closer to their mother. Putting aside his ad agency work, he’d stayed with Mom for nearly a month. Mom had said she couldn’t conjure anyone more dependable to help her organize her affairs and get her bearings. Caleb envied their relationship but suppressed jealousy.
Now, instead of dispensing support, Phoenix was the one who needed it.
They all sat, lost in their own private thoughts, slumped into the slick plastic seats. Caleb couldn’t tell if minutes or hours passed waiting. He released a shuddered breath.
“Are you okay?” Sascha asked, peering at Caleb.
