"Get the hell away from me." His voice came out in a croak of terror, infuriating him.
"Relax now. Relax. I'm a doctor. Look at me." Stella leaned her face closer. "Look at me now. Tell me your name."
His heart thundered in his chest. "John."
"Smith, I imagine," she said dryly. "Well, if you have the presence of mind to lie, you're not doing too badly." She shined a light in his eyes, grunted. "I'd say you've got yourself a mild concussion. How many times have you passed out since you were beat up?"
"That was the first." He felt himself coloring under her unblinking stare and struggled not to squirm. "I think. I'm not sure. I have to go."
"Yes, you do. To the hospital."
"No." Terror gave him the strength to grab her arm before she could rise. If he ended up in the hospital, there would be questions. With questions came cops. With cops came the social workers. And somehow, before it was over, he'd end up back in that trailer that stank of stale beer and piss with a man who found his greatest relief in pounding on a boy half his size.
"I'm not going to any hospital. I'm not. Just give me my clothes. I've got some money. I'll pay you for the trouble. I have to go."
She sighed again. "Tell me your name. Your real one."
"Cam. Cameron."
"Cam, who did this to you?"
"I don't—"
"Don't lie to me," she snapped.
And he couldn't. His fear was too huge, and his head was starting to throb so fiercely he could barely stop the whimper. "My father."
"Why?"
"Because he likes to."
Stella pressed her fingers against her eyes, then lowered her hands and looked out of the window. She could see the water, blue as summer, the trees, thick with leaves, and the sky, cloudless and lovely. And in such a fine world, she thought, there were parents who beat their children because they liked to. Because they could. Because they were there.
"All right, we'll take this one step at a time. You've been dizzy, experienced blurred vision." Cautious, Cam nodded. "Maybe some. But I haven't eaten in a while."
"Ray's down taking care of that. Better in the kitchen than me. Your ribs are bruised, but they're not broken. The eye's the worst of it," she murmured, touching a gentle finger to the swelling. "We can treat that here. We'll clean you up and doctor you and see how you do. I am a doctor," she told him again, and smiled as her hand, blissfully cool, smoothed his hair back. "A pediatrician."
"That's a kid doctor."
"You still qualify, tough guy. If I don't like how you do, you're going in for X-rays." She reached into her bag for antiseptic. "This is going to sting a little."
He winced, sucked in his breath as she began to treat his face. "Why are you doing this?" She couldn't stop herself. With her free hand she brushed back a messy shock of his dark hair. "Because I like to."
they'd kept him. it hadbeen as simple as that, Cam thought now. Or so it had seemed to him at the time. He hadn't realized until years later how much work, effort, and money they'd invested in first fostering, then adopting him. They'd given him their home, their name, and everything worthwhile in his life. They'd lost Stella nearly eight years ago to a cancer that had snuck into her body and eaten away at it. Some of the light had gone out of that house on the outskirts of the little water town of St. Christopher's, and out of Ray, out of Cam, and out of the two other lost boys they'd made their own. Cam had gone racing—anything, anywhere. Now he was racing home to the only man he'd ever considered his father.
He'd been to this hospital countless times. When his mother had been on staff, and then when she'd been in treatment for the thing that killed her.
He walked in now, punchy and panicked, and asked for Raymond Quinn at the admission's desk.
"He's in Intensive Care. Family only."
"I'm his son." Cameron turned away and headed for the elevator. He didn't have to be told what floor. He knew too well.
He saw Phillip the moment the doors opened onto ICU. "How bad?"
Phillip handed over one of the two cups of coffee he held. His face was pale with fatigue, his normally well-groomed tawny hair tousled by his hands. His long, somewhat angelic face was roughened by stubble, and his eyes, a pale golden brown, shadowed with exhaustion.
"I wasn't sure you'd make it. It's bad, Cam. Christ, I've got to sit down a minute." He stepped into a small waiting area, and dropped into a chair. The can of Coke in the pocket of his tailored suit clunked. For a moment he stared blindly at the morning show running brightly on the TV
screen.
"What happened?" Cam demanded. "Where is he? What do the doctors say?"
"He was heading home from Baltimore. At least Ethan thinks he'd gone to Baltimore. For something. He hit a telephone pole. Dead on." He pressed the heel of his hand to his heart because it ached every time he pictured it. "They say maybe he had a heart attack or a stroke and lost control, but they're not sure yet. He was driving fast. Too fast."
He had to close his eyes because his stomach kept trying to jump into his throat. "Too fast," he repeated.
"It took them nearly an hour to cut him out of the wreck. Nearly an hour. The paramedics said he was conscious on and off. It was just a couple miles from here."
He remembered the Coke in his pocket, opened the can, and drank. He kept trying to block the image out of his head, to concentrate on the now, and the what happened next. "They got ahold of Ethan pretty quick," Phillip continued. "When he got here Dad was in surgery. He's in a coma now." He looked up, met his brother's eyes. "They don't expect him to come out of it."
"That's bullshit. He's strong as an ox."
"They said…" Phillip closed his eyes again. His head felt empty, and he had to search for every thought.
"Massive trauma. Brain damage. Internal injuries. He's on life support. The surgeon… he… Dad's a registered organ donor."
"Fuck that." Cam's voice was low and furious.
"Do you think I want to consider it?" Phillip rose now, a tall, rangy man in a wrinkled thousand-dollar suit. "They said it's a matter of hours at most. The machines are keeping him breathing. Goddamn it, Cam, you know how Mom and Dad talked about this when she got sick. No extreme measures. They made living wills, and we're ignoring his because… because we can't stand not to."
"Relax now. Relax. I'm a doctor. Look at me." Stella leaned her face closer. "Look at me now. Tell me your name."
His heart thundered in his chest. "John."
"Smith, I imagine," she said dryly. "Well, if you have the presence of mind to lie, you're not doing too badly." She shined a light in his eyes, grunted. "I'd say you've got yourself a mild concussion. How many times have you passed out since you were beat up?"
"That was the first." He felt himself coloring under her unblinking stare and struggled not to squirm. "I think. I'm not sure. I have to go."
"Yes, you do. To the hospital."
"No." Terror gave him the strength to grab her arm before she could rise. If he ended up in the hospital, there would be questions. With questions came cops. With cops came the social workers. And somehow, before it was over, he'd end up back in that trailer that stank of stale beer and piss with a man who found his greatest relief in pounding on a boy half his size.
"I'm not going to any hospital. I'm not. Just give me my clothes. I've got some money. I'll pay you for the trouble. I have to go."
She sighed again. "Tell me your name. Your real one."
"Cam. Cameron."
"Cam, who did this to you?"
"I don't—"
"Don't lie to me," she snapped.
And he couldn't. His fear was too huge, and his head was starting to throb so fiercely he could barely stop the whimper. "My father."
"Why?"
"Because he likes to."
Stella pressed her fingers against her eyes, then lowered her hands and looked out of the window. She could see the water, blue as summer, the trees, thick with leaves, and the sky, cloudless and lovely. And in such a fine world, she thought, there were parents who beat their children because they liked to. Because they could. Because they were there.
"All right, we'll take this one step at a time. You've been dizzy, experienced blurred vision." Cautious, Cam nodded. "Maybe some. But I haven't eaten in a while."
"Ray's down taking care of that. Better in the kitchen than me. Your ribs are bruised, but they're not broken. The eye's the worst of it," she murmured, touching a gentle finger to the swelling. "We can treat that here. We'll clean you up and doctor you and see how you do. I am a doctor," she told him again, and smiled as her hand, blissfully cool, smoothed his hair back. "A pediatrician."
"That's a kid doctor."
"You still qualify, tough guy. If I don't like how you do, you're going in for X-rays." She reached into her bag for antiseptic. "This is going to sting a little."
He winced, sucked in his breath as she began to treat his face. "Why are you doing this?" She couldn't stop herself. With her free hand she brushed back a messy shock of his dark hair. "Because I like to."
they'd kept him. it hadbeen as simple as that, Cam thought now. Or so it had seemed to him at the time. He hadn't realized until years later how much work, effort, and money they'd invested in first fostering, then adopting him. They'd given him their home, their name, and everything worthwhile in his life. They'd lost Stella nearly eight years ago to a cancer that had snuck into her body and eaten away at it. Some of the light had gone out of that house on the outskirts of the little water town of St. Christopher's, and out of Ray, out of Cam, and out of the two other lost boys they'd made their own. Cam had gone racing—anything, anywhere. Now he was racing home to the only man he'd ever considered his father.
He'd been to this hospital countless times. When his mother had been on staff, and then when she'd been in treatment for the thing that killed her.
He walked in now, punchy and panicked, and asked for Raymond Quinn at the admission's desk.
"He's in Intensive Care. Family only."
"I'm his son." Cameron turned away and headed for the elevator. He didn't have to be told what floor. He knew too well.
He saw Phillip the moment the doors opened onto ICU. "How bad?"
Phillip handed over one of the two cups of coffee he held. His face was pale with fatigue, his normally well-groomed tawny hair tousled by his hands. His long, somewhat angelic face was roughened by stubble, and his eyes, a pale golden brown, shadowed with exhaustion.
"I wasn't sure you'd make it. It's bad, Cam. Christ, I've got to sit down a minute." He stepped into a small waiting area, and dropped into a chair. The can of Coke in the pocket of his tailored suit clunked. For a moment he stared blindly at the morning show running brightly on the TV
screen.
"What happened?" Cam demanded. "Where is he? What do the doctors say?"
"He was heading home from Baltimore. At least Ethan thinks he'd gone to Baltimore. For something. He hit a telephone pole. Dead on." He pressed the heel of his hand to his heart because it ached every time he pictured it. "They say maybe he had a heart attack or a stroke and lost control, but they're not sure yet. He was driving fast. Too fast."
He had to close his eyes because his stomach kept trying to jump into his throat. "Too fast," he repeated.
"It took them nearly an hour to cut him out of the wreck. Nearly an hour. The paramedics said he was conscious on and off. It was just a couple miles from here."
He remembered the Coke in his pocket, opened the can, and drank. He kept trying to block the image out of his head, to concentrate on the now, and the what happened next. "They got ahold of Ethan pretty quick," Phillip continued. "When he got here Dad was in surgery. He's in a coma now." He looked up, met his brother's eyes. "They don't expect him to come out of it."
"That's bullshit. He's strong as an ox."
"They said…" Phillip closed his eyes again. His head felt empty, and he had to search for every thought.
"Massive trauma. Brain damage. Internal injuries. He's on life support. The surgeon… he… Dad's a registered organ donor."
"Fuck that." Cam's voice was low and furious.
"Do you think I want to consider it?" Phillip rose now, a tall, rangy man in a wrinkled thousand-dollar suit. "They said it's a matter of hours at most. The machines are keeping him breathing. Goddamn it, Cam, you know how Mom and Dad talked about this when she got sick. No extreme measures. They made living wills, and we're ignoring his because… because we can't stand not to."
