Harsh overhead lighting. The sound of a gurneyoutside, rattling down the hallways. Machines beeping. The strong smell of cleaning products. Cole settling beside me, not touching butthere. Breathe in four counts, breathe out four counts.
“What the hell happened, Dad?”
His face creases in the hint of a smile. “I was trying to install some crown molding — knew I should have moved the ladder, but I thought I could reach —”
I shake my head. “Dad, you would havekilledme if you ever saw me do something like that.”
“You were always so careful.” Dad reaches toward Cole. “Besides, the most dangerous thing you ever did was bringingthislawsuit waiting to happen onto my construction site. Son, have you learned how to operate a nail gun without killing someone yet?”
Cole grins, and it’s like sunshine peeking from behind a cloud. “Not yet, sir, but I’m still holding out hope that Ezra is going to teach me someday.”
There’s an ease to it, the way Cole draws Dad out and keeps him engaged. Cole cracks jokes, and Dad laughs, and even though I can tell Dad is in pain, grimacing from time to time, he’s in good spirits. But at the same time, it feels fragile, as if the moment is made of glass. When Cole looks at me, he hesitates, a tremor in his voice before he turns back to my dad. I don’t know how to act, and I keep my arms folded tightly across my chest while the nurse checks Dad’s vital signs, rocking slightly in my chair. By the time the doctorcomes in to confer with us, there’s a rushing in my ears, and I feel vaguely ill.
“You gave everyone a scare, Mr. Callahan, but you’re in good hands and you’re going to be fine,” the doctor says, folding her arms across her chest. She’s a few years older than I am, with straight dark hair pulled back tightly from her face. Her employee badge reads CATHERINE STRAHAN, MD. “Is it alright if I share your medical information with your son and his friend?”
Dad nods. “Sure, Ezra’s here to make sure I don’t get into any more trouble.”
“I can tell he’s going to have his hands full with you,” Dr. Strahan laughs. “The X-rays are back, and we’ve confirmed that you did indeed fracture your right hip, and you need surgery to replace it as soon as possible.”
“Replace?” I cut in.
“Yes, due to the severity of the fracture and your father’s age, replacement is the best course of action,” she replies smoothly.
The rushing in my ears gets a little louder.
Dr. Strahan is going on calmly, telling us about Dad’s mild concussion and what the hospital is doing to monitor it, going over plans for Dad’s surgery later on in the evening, and instructing him not to eat or drink anything in the meantime. Cole is nodding along, asking appropriate questions, but it’s all I can do to keepfrom shouting.
Beside me, Cole clears his throat gently, then wedges his knee against mine. It’ssomething— the warmth of him grounding, a point to focus my energy. I glance over at him, and he breathes in deeply, then lets it out slowly. I do my best to follow his lead.
Dr. Strahan looks at her iPad, tapping a few more buttons. “Last question, Mr. Callahan — how’s your pain on a scale of one to ten?”
Dad screws up his face. “Maybe a six?”
“Are you okay with that, or would you like more pain meds? You’re not at your limit yet and we want to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible.”
Dad looks over at us, and Cole shrugs. “Live it up, I’d say.”
“What he said,” Dad agrees, and Dr. Strahan nods.
“I’ll order some more meds for you, and the nurse will be in shortly. In the meantime, it looks like you’re in good hands. Get some rest!”
***
It’s an hour later, and my knee is jiggling up and down.
Dad is asleep, snoring softly with his mouth open. I’m glad he’s relaxed enough to rest, but watching him is causing a weird twist in my gut. I’m not ready for this. Dad has always been so strong, so much larger than life, but now —
I think of Mom, lying in the bedthat the hospice people brought for her, her blue scarf slipping as she sleeps, and I shake my head, willing the image away.
Cole lifts his head. He’s been quiet since Dad dropped off, scrolling through his phone, and it’s been weird, not knowing what to say to him. But now he’s looking right at me, brow furrowed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just —” I flap my hand as if clearing the air in front of me. “Bad memories.”
“Mmm— yeah.” He stares at me for a long time, blinking behind his glasses. Then he breathes in sharply and stands up. “I’m gonna go stretch my legs for a while. I’ll be back.”
I settle into my seat and try not to let my eyes rake over him as he walks out the door. I’m — well, moderately successful. I pull out my phone and try to find something to hold my attention. But the words are just noise and light, bouncing against the back of my brain before ricocheting out again. I’m too worked up to focus on anything.
