“If he wakes up and you’re not taken care of he’ll kill me, blood bag or not.” He’d finally blame me for something too. Taking her leg, I got the disinfectant, antibiotics, along with a few bandages. “You’re lucky it was a clean through wound. You shouldn’t walk on it and you definitely shouldn’t let it air out like that.”
“And the other one?”
“The other one?” I looked up at her.
She nodded, lifting her blonde hair and showing me her shoulder. “The doctor out there gave me the patch. It helped with the pain, but she said the bullet is still in.”
I was now sure my father would kill me if he were alive. My mother too...and I was her favorite, but even she couldn’t accept this. This woman, who had only been family for a few short weeks, had suffered and fought more for my brother than I had my whole life. She’d walked through hell with a bullet in her shoulder and wound in her leg just for him.
“Wyatt?”
“Is this the same doctor that gave you the med kit for me?” I asked, peeling the patch off her shoulder. It was good for keeping the pain down and pumping emergency antibiotics in.
She nodded. “She looked kinda pissed, though.”
“I could think of a dozen reasons why any doctor would be pissed to be here at the crack of dawn.” I snickered, reaching for the vial of morphine.
“I don’t like taking drugs,” she muttered, looking at the vial. “They gave us stuff all the time at the prison without explaining. I was scared I’d end up a vegetable or comatose with no way of protecting myself.”
“First, that was illegal. Second, you have a family to protect you now always,” I replied.
She closed her eyes as I injected her, then grabbed a second, smaller pair of forceps to pull out the bullet, which luckily hadn’t fractured like Ethan’s. Those things were used by gangs in order to make more damage.
“Can you do me a favor?” she whispered, her eyelids dropping as the drug kicked in. “You know, as your sister…as family.”
“Between you and Dona, I’m sure I’m never resting again.” I smiled, picking up the suture kit.
“Can you tell him for me?”
I froze, staring down at the needle in my hand. There it was again. That…liquid fire spreading from my chest to my throat.
“I never want to speak about it—”
“I understand.” I resumed picking up the suture and moving to her wound. “Just rest, okay?”
She inhaled thankfully and did her best to stay upright. I worked quickly, bandaging the wound in her shoulder first. Then I lifted her up as she drifted off, grabbing a few more things with my other hand before heading up the stairs with her.
She at least looked peaceful as I laid her down on the bed.
Grabbing a pillow, I lifted up her leg and propped it on top of it, cleaning it out gently before doing what I could to bandage her up without moving her too much. Finished, I grabbed all the scrap around me. I rose to my feet only to see the room an utter mess. Angrily, knowing how much of a neat freak Ethan was, I threw away the junk in my hands before moving to pick up the clothes. One by one, gathering them into my arms, I walked into the small closet, where all his shit was hung up perfectly without a wrinkle…everything but a familiar looking black garment bag.
Dropping the clothes, I reached for it. Zipping it down, sure enough, there was a white card with his initials monogrammed in red on the front. Taking it and flipping it over, I read the same message he’d sent every year.
Another year. Still a Callahan. So dress like one and maybe you’ll start to act like one. –Ethan.
Grinding my teeth together, my eyes burned as I crumpled the letter, fighting the…the roar that wanted to rip through me, for her sake as she slept.
“It’s your fault! If your sister trips, it’s your fault. If your brother gets a paper cut, it’s your fault. If the sky falls and harms anyone within this family as it crashes down, it is your fault! That is what it means to be family!”
I understood now…why our father would yell just at him, why he made sure we’d all be there to witness, Ethan, the perfect one, get a tongue-lashing for something we’d done. It was so we’d realize it was him who’d suffer if we failed, not us, and be thankful because if it weren’t for him it would be us, and could we take it like he could?
“I’m sorry I took so long, Pa,” I whispered, walking out with the bag over my shoulder.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I Am Not. And Then I Am.”
~ Amie Kaufman