She printed the band and slid it across the counter without looking up again.
I sat with it loose around my wrist near the dried blood on my cuff. The paramedic in the ambulance had given me gauze to press against Thiago’s shoulder. I had not thought about my hands again until the hospital.
My mother had administered a funeral home in the Tremé for thirty years. I grew up doing homework at a folding table in her back office while families unraveled in the adjacent rooms. I understood hospital waiting rooms the way I understood the smell of rain before it fell.
I hadn’t expected to be on this side of it.
A television in the corner ran a muted weather broadcast. The storm over the Gulf had moved west. No one was watching.
My father arrived first.
Jean-Paul Moreau came through the doors still dressed from the concert, his jacket open and his tie loosened. He’d had enough of formality for the evening. He stopped in front of my chair and assessed me quickly, thoroughly, and without sentiment.
Then he pulled me to my feet and wrapped both arms tightly around me.
He held on without asking questions. I pressed my face against his shoulder. His hand rested at the back of my head.
When he stepped back, he kept one hand on my shoulder. “How bad?”
“Through the shoulder. They’re cleaning it.”
He nodded once. “And you?”
“Fine.”
He studied my face for another two seconds and accepted that, sitting down beside me.
My mother arrived ten minutes later. She paused just inside the door long enough to locate me. I watched her speak to the nurse behind the desk. The nurse checked a screen and said something. My mother thanked her and turned toward us.
She kissed my cheek before she sat down. “They’re irrigating the wound and checking nerve function. The surgeon expects a full recovery.”
My father exhaled once through his nose.
I realized I had been holding my breath since the ambulance doors closed.
“You rode with him?” my mother asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.” She rested her hand on my arm. “That was the right thing.”
Celeste arrived with a canvas tote packed with the practical foresight of someone who understood what hospital waitingrooms after midnight were lacking—nourishment. She had not changed since the concert. She set the bag on the table beside the coffee machine and began unpacking containers that smelled like an elegant kitchen.
My mother helped her without being asked.
“You are a civilized woman,” she said.
“I’ve spent enough time in hospitals to know what is not available.”
My father accepted a container without hesitation. My mother handed one to me.
Celeste pulled a chair closer and glanced at the dried blood on my cuff, then at my face.
“I was in the third row,” she said. Her voice was calm and precise. “He was moving before the audience understood what the sound was. That wasn’t a reflex. It was a decision made in less time than most people need to form a thought.”
I looked down at my hands and said nothing.
Dominic arrived still dressed from the concert, white shirt open at the collar and tuxedo jacket folded over one arm. He paused just inside the doorway, reading the room. Then he walked toward us.
