Chapter 15

Sunday

“Thanks, Moira,” I mumble through exhaustion, taking a pair of clean scrubs from her so I can change. “I’ll get them washed and back to you on my next shift.”

“Girl don’t even worry about it, they don’t fit me anymore thanks to my addiction to Ben Jerry’s,” she teases.

Despite the solemnity of the situation, I can’t hold back the giggle that slips through. She hugs me tight and whispers, “You guys need anything, let me know. I know waiting sucks.”

“I think we’re good right now,” I quietly reply, looking back at the group of people who have arrived since finding out about Dusty being wheeled into surgery.

It’s a testament to how well thought of Jett is in our town, because while not everyone has stayed, several stopped by with food and even blankets for comfort, knowing there was no way we will be leaving until we hear the prognosis. Even then, I suspect Jett will badger the doctor to let him stay in the recovery room with Dusty, at least until he’s alert. And if he has to be admitted, I’ll make sure Jett has the best cot we have in storage.

“Dr. Crane said to pass on that he’s putting you on leave.”

“I don’t have much time accrued right now, it hasn’t been that long since I started.”

“Honey, you don’t understand how we work here. Every one of us has chipped in hours to cover you while you’re out,” she replies.

Tears well in my eyes once again at the kindness extended to me by proxy. “Really? But I don’t understand.”

“Do you honestly think none of us have noticed how you readily pitch in to pick up shifts when someone’s sick or, like with Sandira, out unexpectedly? It’s the least any of us can do for you,” she explains. “Now, go get changed and dry your eyes, missy,” she instructs, making me giggle. “I’ll go see if I can get any kind of an update for you guys.”

“We’d appreciate it.”

* * *

“Coach?” As Jett and I turn, we see Mr. and Mrs. Timmers standing there, their eyes red-rimmed from crying, and their faces lined with grief.

“Mr. and Mrs. Timmers, I didn’t expect either of you to stop by,” Jett says, standing and hugging both of them. “Words can’t express how sorry I am for your loss. Michael was one of the best young men I’ve ever met. I feel terrible that, because he was taking Dusty to my sister’s for me, he was in an accident. If not for that, he’d still be alive.”

“Coach, you can’t think like that,” Mrs. Timmers argues. “Michael thought of Dusty like a younger brother, and he loved it when he was able to help you ‘haul him around’ as he used to say.” Her smile is slight, but the sentiment behind it has me reaching for her hand. “We wanted to see if you had heard anything yet.”

“Not yet,” I interject since Jett seems to be at a loss for words. “He’s still in surgery, and one of my coworkers just went to check to see if she could get an update.”

“Then we’ll sit and wait with you for a while,” Mr. Timmers decrees. “Is there anything you need?”

“Not that I can think of,” Jett murmurs. “Besides, that should be my question for you two.”

“We have an appointment in the morning with the funeral home. Coach, if it’s not too much of an imposition, we’d like to ask you to be one of his pallbearers, as well as several of his teammates.”

“I think we’d all be honored to do that for him,” Jett quietly replies, tears slowly coursing down his face.

* * *

“Mr. Blake?” Dr. Patel’s voice breaks through the silence in the room, although at this point, as late as it has gotten, the only ones here are me, Jett, and his sister. His brother-in-law, who I met for the first time tonight, took their kids home.

Jett grips my hand in his as we walk toward where the doctor is standing. It’s evident he’s exhausted, which is unsurprising since we’ve been waiting nearly six hours since he went into the operating room. “How’s my little man?” he asks, his voice breaking slightly at the end.

A small smile graces Dr. Patel’s face as he replies, “It’s going to take some time, and a lot of patience on both of your parts, but I believe he’s going to be perfectly fine. The main reason the surgery took so long is while we had him under, we decided to repair the fractures in his arm and leg, as well as the aortic dissection which is what necessitated CPR. He does have a concussion as well as an orbital fracture, so we have a call out for an EENT surgeon since we couldn’t do anything with the significant swelling. The EENT doctor will be able to assess whether or not there’s any vision changes, as well as determine if surgery will be required. He’s currently being transported up to ICU, and I want to warn you ahead of time, he’s in a medically induced coma to allow his body to heal.”

“He’s alive,” Jett whispers, his knees buckling. Both the doctor and I manage to keep him upright as his tears begin to fall. “Thank you, thank all of you who made sure my boy is going to be okay.”

“You’re welcome. A nurse will be down shortly to take you up to him once they have him settled into his room. Dr. Crane has advised that he will have his parents staying with him,” he states, looking at the two of us.

“There are no words to express my gratitude right now,” Jett says.

“Well, his mother gave him that shot,” Dr. Patel advises, looking at me. “If not for her quick thinking, the outcome might have been completely different. She continued with CPR until we were able to use the defibrillator.”

“I was doing what I’ve been trained to do, sir,” I reply, blushing under his praising perusal. Neither Jett nor I correct the doctor’s misconception that I’m Dusty’s mom; the facts wouldn’t change and at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what others think, we know the truth.

“Crane was right, you’re too modest for your own good. Both of us will be checking on him daily, but if you have any questions at all, please let his nurse know, and they’ll get a message to me.”

“Thank you again, doctor,” Jett calls out as Dr. Patel leaves the waiting room.

We slump into the chairs as Jett wraps his arms around me, and his sister as we cry once again, this time in relief.

* * *

I grin walking into Dusty’s room two weeks after the accident. It took a week before they decided to wean him off the medications keeping him in a coma, but since awakening, he’s been a model patient. It’s hard not to be, though, when one leg is in traction, your dominant hand is in a cast from your fingers to your shoulder, and your other side has all the wires and tubes to ensure you get what is needed.

Still, he’s been as good as can be expected.

“So, how’s it shaking?” I ask once I’m next to his bed. “You been giving anyone any problems today?”

He snickers, but shakes his head. “Naw, why should I? If I did, you and Dad would be upset with me because anything they ask me to do is only to make me better. At least that’s what I think, anyhow.”

“Wish more patients were like that,” I murmur, opening up my lunch bag to pull out two sandwiches. “Thought I’d come up and eat with you during my break, that okay?”

“Beats eating by myself until dinner. Thanks, Sunday!” he exclaims before he begins eating.

“You should get to come home at the end of the week.”

“Just in time for the big game, huh?”

“Yeah, you excited?”

His face grows serious as he turns to me. “I’m gonna miss Timmers, Sunday. He was a really neat guy, you know? Called me Dustman, and treated me like I was more than just the coach’s kid.”

I nod in understanding. Jett’s been having a hard time dealing with his emotions, especially since he feels he needs to be strong for his team, as well as Timmers’ parents, who are beyond distraught over the loss of their son.

“I didn’t really know him, Dusty, just from that time when almost the whole school ended up in the emergency room, but your dad has talked a lot about him. He was well-liked from the sound of things.”

“He was, but he wasn’t a jerk about it if that makes sense,” he replies, moving to his pudding cup. It amazes me that he’s doing so well eating with his opposite hand because I’d be making the biggest mess.

“It does because that’s how your dad was when we were in school,” I reminisce. “He was super popular, the school’s star quarterback, great student, but he was nice to everyone whether they were a friend or stranger.”

“That’s how I’m gonna be when I grow up,” Dusty vows, grinning at me. “Sunday? Can I say something?”

“You can say, or tell me anything, little man.”

“I wanna say thank you for helping to save me. Dad says it wasn’t easy for you to do it knowing it was me, but I’m good with a few broken ribs since it means I’m still here to hopefully get a baby brother or sister down the road,” he quietly says as he takes another bite, subtly giving me a hint.

“A baby brother or sister, huh? Does your father know your master plan?” I tease, blinking quickly so the tears that want to fall dissipate.

He snickers while shaking his head. Then he stops and looks up as though he’s in deep thought. “I think he might because I’ve heard him tell you he loves you, and you tell him the same thing. Don’t people in love get married and have kids?”

I shrug, holding back my grin. “Sometimes, they do. Right now, we’re both focusing on you getting better, okay?”

“Sunday? Can I tell you something else?”

“Anything, little man,” I reply.

“I can’t believe my mother was the one responsible for the accident.” This time, his voice is barely above a whisper as his head drops in shame. “So, it means Timmers dying is kinda my fault.”

“What the fuck?” Jett explodes, having apparently come into the room without either of us noticing. “No, nuh-uh, no fucking way you’re going to carry that load of horse shit, bud. No way. She might have given birth to you, but she’s not your mother by a longshot. In fact, since she’s facing prison time for purposefully causing the accident, I have my lawyer drawing up the paperwork to terminate her parental rights.”

“What does that mean, Dad?” Dusty asks.

I’m still sitting here, horrified that he knows it was his birth mom who caused the wreck in the first place. When we found out, Jett went ballistic, then reached out to her family who had tried to come and see Dusty where he told them in no uncertain terms that they were not welcome, and especially not Stacey, who had wailed out her anguish over ‘almost killing her baby boy’. Jett put them all in their place without allowing the drama to spill over onto Dusty.

“It means, little man, that according to the law, she would no longer be your mom.”

“Does that mean I can be adopted?”

The look on Jett’s face is priceless, and if the subject matter wasn’t so serious, I’d be laughing my ass off. “Well, I mean, I suppose you could be, say, if I got married. The woman would be able to make that decision herself to become your mom,” he slowly replies, slyly glancing in my direction.

“Cool. So someday, Sunday will be my mom, since she’s been more of one to me than my birth mother ever was,” he announces rather matter-of-factly.