New York City
May 8
Calliope’s natural inclination toward movement was amplified exponentially in the fluorescent waiting room of New York Presbyterian Lower Manhattan Hospital. It had taken both EMTs and two police officers to get Tox onto the gurney, their grave expressions disconcerting. “It was just an arm wound,” she had muttered. Another cop at the scene had explained the dire impact of the wound. “A severed brachial artery is almost as bad as cutting the femoral or carotid. A person can bleed out in under two minutes.”
When she recalled Tox’s urgent words, gotta get this stopped, she’d run to the kitchen and vomited into the sink.
She paced the narrow paths through the waiting room, passing by mothers with listless children in their laps, and a man who was complaining about the wait, that he just needed pain meds. She sat, got up again, paced, sat, stood, checked to see if the ficus in the corner was real—it was not. She tugged on her earlobe, checked the time, sat, stood, repeated… A hand on her shoulder had her spinning around. Chat removed his hand but kept it extended.
“Come with me.”
Calliope shook her head no and covered her mouth and nose with her hands. Chat gifted her with a warm smile, returning his hand to her shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay, Calliope.”
She took his arm, and Chat led her down the hall to a private area that looked more like a living room than a waiting room. Chat correctly perceived her confusion.
“The Bishop family has been very generous over the years.”
Ren was already in the room making a fancy cup of coffee from a single-cup machine. Steady and Cam were coming down the hall, no hint of their normal jocularity. Chat repeated his reassurance.
“He’s going to be okay.”
“You’ve spoken to the doctor?”
Chat ushered her into the room without responding.
Finn stood in the corner, arms crossed, staring at Calliope like she was going to try to pick his pocket. He blamed her. So did she. She turned away. She could only deal with so much crap at a time.
Three hours later, the group was still parked. Nathan had arrived from South Carolina, and he had spent most of the past hour on his phone. The rest of the group read or worked or took combat naps—except for Calliope who had walked the halls, practiced yoga stretches, cleaned a spider web from the corner of the ceiling, and watered the orchid on a corner table—live this time, unlike the ficus. If she stopped she had to process, so she didn’t stop.
“Jesus,” Cam nudged Ren. “It’s like watching a baby monkey explore its enclosure. A really, really hot baby monkey.”
“Tox will Frankenstein-walk from his hospital bed to kick your ass,” Ren warned.
Just then the weary vascular surgeon stood in the doorway. She cleaned her oval wire-framed glasses on her scrubs and wore a no-nonsense expression.
“He made it through surgery fine. The problem now is blood loss. He lost over two pints. That’s in the danger zone. Fortunately, the big guy has a blood volume of over eight liters, but we’re going to keep him for twenty-four hours. Blood loss like that can endanger the heart, the kidneys. He’ll need to be closely monitored.”
The men nodded. Nathan spoke. “How’s the arm?”
“Surprisingly good. He may experience some numbness, but I didn’t detect any nerve damage. He’ll retain full range of motion.”
Nathan nodded. “Visitors?”
“Visiting hours are over, but I spoke to the charge nurse. They’re going to make an exception. She nodded in Nathan’s direction. He nodded in return. “One at a time in the ICU.”
“Nathan set a gentle hand on Calliope’s shoulder. “She’ll go first.”
Calliope hurried down the hall behind the orderly the doctor had corralled. The young man held open the door to Tox’s room, and she entered.
It looked surreal, her invincible giant lying in the bed, IV and oxygen lines trailing from his body, his arm bandaged tightly to his chest, the crisp sheet folded across his torso. She walked around the bed in a U. She touched the rough stubble on his head, the scar at his eyebrow. She ran her hand along his good arm, down his leg. She squeezed his big toe.
It wasn’t until her third lap that she noticed it. His good hand, his left hand was patting the bed—just his fingers, pat pat pat. She sat on the end of the bed. His good arm slid up. She tipped her body slowly toward him until her head was resting on his pectoral.
“I love you, Miller.”
Tox didn’t speak or open his eyes or smile, but when she lifted her head, she saw his dimples.
She returned her cheek to his chest and for the first time in a very long time, Calliope was still.