Faultlines Read online

  “I—we don’t know anything for sure at this point. It could as easily have been Trav—”

  “Huck was first on the scene, Sandy. He said Jordy was driving.”

  “Of course he would say that. We both know how he feels about you even if no one else does.”

  “Jordy said it, too, that when he came to, he was in the driver’s seat.”

  “But he’s never the designated driver.”

  “Because he drinks, and Travis is always the responsible one, the way I always was.”

  Sandy wanted to argue, to defend Jordy. How would he live with it if something happened to Michelle, or to Travis, who was like a brother? Closer, even. They were like twins. They’d been born in the early summer of the same year, nearly on the same day. She smoothed her hand down the clipboard, speaking to it in a low voice. “Right now all that matters is for Jordy and Travis and Michelle to be okay.”

  “Well, they aren’t. And Travis—Trav may never be—” Jenna’s voice broke.

  Sandy put her arms around Jenna, and they were heedless when the clipboard slipped from Sandy’s lap and clattered to the floor.

  “I haven’t been this scared since you had surgery,” Sandy whispered.

  “That was nothing,” Jenna said. She pushed out of Sandy’s embrace, dug a tissue from her purse, and blew her nose. “Losing a boob is nothing compared to losing your kid.”

  “You aren’t going to lose him, Jenna. Don’t talk like that.”

  “He’s on life support,” Jenna said with such venom that Sandy recoiled. “Machines are breathing for him, beating his heart. His brain is bleeding, and they can’t stop it. Six of his ribs are broken. His lungs keep collapsing, and his leg is fractured so badly it nearly severed his femoral artery. Do you want to hear more?” Jenna shot to her feet.

  Sandy stared at her. Had she been able to find the right words, she still couldn’t have spoken.

  “But Jordy apologized, so that makes it all right with you, I’m sure. He said he was sorry. Hot damn. I am so touched.”

  “This is not happening,” Sandy muttered, retrieving the clipboard.

  “Oh, that’s so like you.” Jenna wheeled a few steps away, hands thrust into the air. “Avoiding everything. Pretending it’s wonderful when it’s shit. But that’s okay, you’ll still have Jordy, your perfect prince, Mr. I Can Never Do Anything Wrong in My Mama’s Eyes. Because according to what I’ve heard, Jordy’s going to be just fine!”

  “Hey! What is going on here?”

  Sandy heard Emmett, and she stood up, feeling wobbly, feeling a jolt of relief.

  “We could hear you clear down the corridor.” Troy sat down.

  “She’s blaming me,” Sandy said, and thought how childish she sounded.

  “I just talked to your mom. She’s been trying to call you.”

  Sandy said, “I couldn’t talk to her.”

  “Me, either,” Jenna said.

  “Well, she caught me off guard. She said this morning when she woke up she knew something was wrong. I had to tell her. She and your dad are on their way.”

  “Did you tell them who was driving?”

  “When they asked, yes.”

  “What did you want him to do, Sandy? Lie?”

  It sounded like a dare. It sounded as if Jenna thought that’s exactly what she would expect of Sandy.

  “You don’t know what happened any more than I do, Jenna,” Sandy said.

  “I know Jordy caused this. I know you’ll lie, and so will Jordy, whenever the truth doesn’t suit you.”

  “Call a truce, you two, okay?” Emmett said.

  “Please.” Troy underscored his request.

  “Why are you accusing me?” Sandy barely registered their calls for peace. She was searching Jenna’s eyes, hunting for a sign of something familiar, the bond they shared, an understanding that they were in this together. But Jenna’s glance was shuttered and cold.

  Emmett took Sandy’s hand, pulling her down beside him. “We’re all under stress,” he said.

  “What about your mom?” she asked, needing a moment, a space to steady herself.

  “I’m not going to call her yet. I want to wait until we know more.”

  Something good, he meant. Irene was fragile, the result of a failing heart. Sandy thought Irene had been losing a bit of her heart every year since she’d lost her husband, Frank, the year Sandy and Emmett turned eleven. Their families had been neighbors; she and Emmett had grown up running in and out of each other’s houses on Adams Avenue in an older section of Wyatt. Their parents were close, too, close enough that they had vacationed together. Irene and Sandy’s mom, Penny, were best friends. Weekends when Emmett and the dads went camping, Sandy and Jenna would shop and do girl things with the moms. They’d been having one of those weekends—the girls at home, the guys off fishing—when Frank drowned.

  They’d gone to the Guadalupe River to fish. There was nothing out of the ordinary, no prescient sense of disaster. It hadn’t rained in weeks, and the water was placid. Like glass, Sandy’s father, Harvey, would say over and over afterward. The only thing making a ripple was the dog. Sandy’s father would say that, too. All three of them were strong swimmers, so when they saw the dog struggling in the current, losing strength, they didn’t think twice about diving in after her. Frank went out the farthest, and when Sandy’s dad saw he was in trouble, he swam toward him, but then Emmett foundered, caught in the same freak undertow. Sandy’s dad got hold of Emmett and hauled him to safety, but by then Frank was gone, and the dog had clambered out of the water on her own. Emmett had blamed himself for needing to be rescued. Sandy’s dad had mourned that he couldn’t save them both.

  The memory haunted them and yet it bound them. Sandy had been jealous of Emmett’s and her dad’s connection until she was old enough to realize their shared grief was forged with love, and that love was what had healed them. Irene had eventually moved north, to Norman, Oklahoma, where she shared a house with her sister, Leila. But she’d never been the same. After she lost Frank, she went into herself. She often gave Sandy the sense she was listening to some other conversation, one no one else could hear. Sandy had decided it was Frank she talked to. Emmett said to leave her alone.

  “I hope this doesn’t kill her,” he said now.

  Sandy was the only one who heard him. She bent her head to his shoulder.

  An hour passed. The shift changed, and foot traffic increased. A man came into the ER waiting room cradling his arm; a mother brought in her small daughter. Fever spots burned on the child’s cheeks, and her cough was so rough it made Sandy’s chest hurt. Charlotte’s replacement, a nurse named Rebecca, knelt before them and rattled off a speech that seemed rehearsed. “They’re holding their own,” she said. “Everything that can be done is being done,” she said, adding, “Dr. Showalter is the best. He’s the one I’d want treating my kid, if I had a kid.”

  She said the hospital had contacted Family Services and that someone would be by later to talk to them. She told them where they could find the hospital chapel and said the reverend, Terry Murphy, would be making rounds later. “Should you feel in need,” she explained.

  Of what? Sandy wondered. Prayer? Blessing?

  A miracle?

  “Travis is going to die,” Jenna said when Rebecca had left them alone again.

  “Please don’t say that.” Sandy found Jenna’s hand and held it, and she was grateful when Jenna allowed this. But even pissed to the max at each other, they were there for each other. They had always been able to talk through everything, even the hard stuff.

  “Trav’s a survivor,” Emmett said. “Just like his mama.”

  Jenna put her other hand on his knee. She was his big sister, too.

  It was late morning when Rebecca returned to say that the boys were being moved to the ICU.

  “That’s good news, right?” Emmett asked. He and Sandy stood up.

  Troy put his hand under Jenna’s elbow, assisting her as if she were old, and holdin
g her close, he said, “I told you Trav was going to make it.”

  The look in Rebecca’s eyes seemed pitying, but she answered cheerfully enough, saying, “Dr. Showalter will be up in a few minutes to talk to you all, and then you can visit your kids. Just be aware, visiting hours are different in the ICU.” She started to turn away, then turned back. “One other thing, and I’m not trying to scare you, but you should be prepared. Both of your guys are in critical condition. There’s a lot of equipment, a lot of tubes. Travis especially—”

  “I saw him,” Jenna said, “before he left Wyatt.”

  “But the bleeding in his brain has stopped, right?” Troy asked.

  “For now,” Rebecca said. “His condition is critical, though.” She repeated it as if she couldn’t stress the fact enough.

  “But there’s hope,” Jenna said. “As long as he’s breathing, right?”

  Rebecca frowned slightly, then she said, “Sure. Of course. As long as he’s breathing.”

  Dr. Showalter was last to the meeting. He was tall and silver haired. Distinguished looking, was Sandy’s thought. His eyes were blue, arctic blue, and as quiet as ice. He sat down across from them, and after the introductions, he began to address them, speaking in medical terms, the universal language of calamity, tossing out words like hematoma, hemorrhage, subarachnoid, and intraventricular as if they should know. Emmett stopped him finally and asked if he would tell them in plain English how their children were hurt.

  Showalter looked vaguely impatient. “Basically, both kids have suffered a good deal of trauma, in particular to their heads.”

  “At Wyatt Regional, Dr. Dermott said the air bags only deployed partially.” Emmett sounded angry, but Sandy knew it was fear that clipped his tone.

  “I don’t know the details,” Dr. Showalter said in a tone that was equally truncated.

  “We were told Jordy’s brain is bruised?” Sandy watched Showalter, hunting for signs of denial.

  There weren’t any. He said a follow-up CT scan had confirmed the bruising, and then he dismissed Sandy’s concern with the wave of his hand, repeating Dr. Dermott’s opinion, that in most cases such bruises—he used the word contusions—healed on their own.

  Emmett asked where the damage was located. “What part of the brain?”

  “Right frontal lobe.”

  “What does that mean?” Sandy asked. “How will he be affected mentally?”

  “Probably not at all in the long run. Right now and in the immediate future, there may be difficulty with memory. He might be confused. His motor skills, language, and emotional expression might be affected. But whatever symptoms there are shouldn’t last. Neither should there be sustained damage to his vision.”

  “His vision?” Sandy asked faintly.

  “You haven’t seen him?”

  “No,” Emmett said. “By the time we were allowed into the ER at Wyatt Regional, they’d already put him on the helicopter.”

  “Well, Jordan sustained a number of severe lacerations to the right side of his face and scalp. Possibly from the air bag, but more than likely from the steering wheel and the windshield. His vision should be fine, as I said, but we did remove a large piece of glass from his right eye.”

  Emmett found Sandy’s hand. “We were told his ribs are broken and his shoulder was dislocated. Is that right?”

  “His shoulder is back in place now.”

  “It’s been dislocated before,” Sandy said.

  “He played football in high school,” Emmett explained.

  “He and Travis were cocaptains their junior and senior year.” Sandy felt more than saw the look Emmett gave her. She clamped her mouth shut.

  Showalter cleared his throat. “It’s good you’re familiar with the injury. You know there could be subsequent fallout—what to watch for.”

  They did, Emmett said.

  Dr. Showalter flattened his palms on his knees, looking almost cheerful. “All right, then. That’s about it. There’s no sign of internal bleeding; he’s breathing on his own. He’s responsive to stimuli, and he’s wakened several times since his arrival here. It doesn’t mean something can’t happen down the road, but he looks good for now. He’s a lucky young man—”

  “Travis.” Jenna leaned forward, and Showalter switched his glance to her. They all did. Her tremors were obvious. “Is Trav breathing on his own?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not.” Dr. Showalter looked away, looked back, reluctance written all over his face. There might have been the slightest softening of his expression. “Your son’s injuries are numerous and severe—”

  “They said at Wyatt Regional that his leg might have to be amputated?”

  “It’s possible, but that’s not the most concerning issue at this point.”

  “It’s the head injury, right?” Troy spoke up.

  “Yes,” Showalter said. “It’s one of the more serious types, I’m afraid. He has what’s called a basilar skull fracture.”

  “Bas—what?” Jenna sat back.

  Sandy capped her hand over Jenna’s shaking knee.

  “Basilar refers to the base of the skull.” Showalter drew his hand across the back of his neck. “In Travis’s case, the fracture is across multiple areas of the brain. There’s pressure on the stem, which has created a number of intraventricular hemorrhages that are also adding pressure. The skull is a very small space—imagine a room with fixed walls. In its normal condition, it’s already packed as tightly as an overfull closet. There’s nowhere for the swelling to go. Do you understand?”

  Jenna said yes, but she looked dazed. Her knee trembled.

  Dr. Showalter continued nonetheless. Maybe he didn’t notice Jenna’s agitation, her bafflement, Sandy thought, or if he did, he couldn’t take time to deal with it. Or perhaps he felt it was better to deliver horrible news as quickly as possible and have it over. Like ripping off a Band-Aid in one motion.

  “While he was still at Wyatt Regional, Travis was started on medication to reduce the pressure and prevent seizures, but the CT scan we did when he arrived here indicated there’s been—” Showalter paused before he said the word little to describe Travis’s level of improvement. He might just as well have said there was no improvement.

  “What are you doing for him?” Sandy asked, because Jenna didn’t or more likely couldn’t. Her jaw was so tightly clenched, the white knot of bone at the corner was visible.

  “The medication he was given that we continued for a time after his arrival here was helpful, but ultimately we didn’t get the result we were looking for.” Showalter took another moment.

  “So?” Troy prompted.

  “So we performed a surgical procedure called a craniotomy. It’s used to extract tumors, but it can also be very quickly effective at relieving pressure on the brain, much like opening the door on a too-full closet can give the contents somewhere to go.”

  “You cut into his brain?” Jenna’s voice rose.

  “It was our only option.”

  “Did it work?” Sandy asked.

  “He’s still not wakened, nor is he responsive to stimuli.” Dr. Showalter stood up. “It’s a waiting game for now.”

  “I want to see him.” Jenna pushed herself from her chair. Troy was on his feet instantly to steady her.

  Sandy and Emmett got up, too, and the four of them trooped after Dr. Showalter, ducklings in a row. Once they entered the ICU, Showalter handed them off to a nurse, an overtly cheerful young woman dressed in pink scrubs printed with green-and-yellow kites. She was Claire Overman, she said, smiling adamantly. Travis and Jordy were her patients. “This way.” She led them along yet another nearly featureless corridor. “Since they’re family, we’ve put them next to each other.” She pushed open another door, holding it, allowing them to pass.

  Sandy crossed the threshold, and her heart faltered. She found Emmett’s hand. She had an impulse to pinch her nose against the harsh, astringent smell of disinfectant that overlay a darker odor of terrible harm to bodies too fra
gile to be thoroughly washed, the wasting stench of disease and death. The glass-fronted rooms loomed like giant fish aquariums and were crammed with every possible kind of machine, beeping and whooshing. Yards of tubing hung from silver poles like party garlands. Thick electrical cords snaked the floor. The sense of dread was pervasive. She felt ill with it. In here, she could no longer imagine that Jordy was less mortally wounded than Travis, or that either of them would survive.

  Claire stopped midway down the hall. “This is Jordy”—she indicated the cubicle on her left—“and Travis is here.” She nodded to her right.

  Sandy looked at Jenna and saw her own panic reflected in her sister’s eyes. There was her accusation, too, stronger now. Jordy had been driving. Jordy had done this. Brought them here to this nightmare place. What if it was true that Jordy had been driving and Travis or Michelle—or both of them—died as a result, and Jordy lived?

  Sandy’s head swam. She put her fingertips to her temple. Don’t. Don’t go there, warned the voice in her brain.

  She felt Emmett’s hand on the small of her back, gently prodding her. She managed to cross the threshold into Jordy’s room, but then she stopped only steps inside to get her bearings, to stare at the body lying so still in the bed. A monitor on the opposite side dinged, and she glanced at it, for a moment spellbound by the numbers and lines that rose and fell across its face in life-measuring increments.

  Behind her, in a low voice, Emmett asked, “Is he awake?”

  “That’s not him,” Sandy said, because Jordy was never so still. He twitched even in sleep. And that face, that poor swollen face, could not be Jordy’s face. There must be some mistake.

  “What is the gauze on his eyes for?”

  Sandy raised her glance to Emmett, who had gone around her and was now standing at the bedside, looking down. She walked to the other side of the bed and looked down, too, at the boy lying there. A sheet and thin blanket were tucked around his chest and under one arm. Only one hand was visible, with strong fingers and flat, square fingernails, bitten to the quick. She recognized that hand and slid her palm over it. Her gratitude, her relief on feeling Jordy’s warmth, brought her to tears. She announced it to Emmett, a celebratory whisper. “He’s warm.”