Idiot.
What he found curious was that Julie was at the Stakeout without Brandon. It seemed to him like a lot of work to get a baby out the door and to a restaurant with the only happening bar scene in town. But when he’d asked Julie about her husband, she’d blushed and said he hadn’t been around much lately. Work, she said. Luke really didn’t know Brandon but in passing, but he knew this—if he, Luke, had that wife and that kid, he’d be around all the damn time.
Luke was lost in thought when he turned onto Elm Street, but then, his heart suddenly plummeted: a fire truck and an ambulance were in front of the little house, their flashing lights illuminating the night. A fear clutched at his throat, the fleeting thought that this was it, Leo’s time had come. He sped up, flying up the gravel drive. He leapt onto the porch as two firemen came out, their bags on their backs, pulling off their latex gloves. “What happened?” he shouted, but didn’t wait for their answer. He all but tore the screen door off to get inside.
Two paramedics were crammed into the tiny living room, shielding his view. “Leo!” Luke shouted, louder than he intended, but his heart was racing, his breath suddenly restricted.
“Dude, I’m okay,” Leo called up to him from somewhere on the floor.
One of the paramedics turned around. “Hey, Luke!”
It was Greg Durbin, a big lovable oaf of a guy Luke had known from his high school days. He was a paramedic now, and he stood up, hoisting his bag onto his back. “How the hell are you, man? Back in town for good or just visiting?”
“I—what happened?” Luke asked.
“Oh, sorry,” Greg said, and glanced over his shoulder. “It’s all good now, but Leo had another seizure.”
“I like to call it an interpretive dance,” Leo said.
Greg shifted; Luke could see Leo on the floor, his useless legs bent at weird angles, his arms crossed like chicken wings across his chest. The other paramedic was checking his blood pressure. Luke’s dad, with his jaw tightly clenched, was on the floor with Leo, holding his head.
Luke knelt by his brother, seeking a bent hand.
“I guess we need to get you to Durango, buddy,” Dad bit out.
“Excellent! A road trip,” Leo said. “Okay, okay, Dad, you can let go now. It’s over. Fellas, as much as I’ve enjoyed this little party down here on a carpet that smells like cat piss, it’s time for Project Runway.”
With Greg and the other paramedic’s help, they picked Leo off the floor and strapped him back into his chair. His muscles had atrophied, but he was still a big guy, and it was not an easy task, especially in a small, crowded room.
When Leo was secure, and the television was on, Luke followed Greg out onto the porch. “What do you mean, another seizure?” he asked Greg, dragging his fingers through his hair. “How many times have you been here?”
“Lemme think.” Greg squinted across the yard. “Seems to happen about once every three or four weeks. It’s a tricky thing, getting that antiseizure medicine right,” he said, shifting his gaze to Luke again. “You really ought to get him to see someone in Durango about it. These doctors in Pine River, they don’t deal with stuff as complicated as Leo.” He leaned in and said low, “Between you and me? I’m not sure your old man gets it, you know?”
Yes, Luke knew. It wasn’t that his dad didn’t get it—but sometimes, he had a hard time facing the truth.
“You really have to get those meds straightened out, Luke.”
Luke sighed. “We will,” he promised.
They chatted for a few minutes, catching up. When Greg left, Luke went back inside the house. He could see his father in the kitchen at the tiny little table, his elbows on the table, his head between his hands.
“You are not going to send that down the runway,” Leo said to the TV.
As Leo was clearly occupied, Luke slipped into the kitchen. He put his hand on his dad’s shoulder as he walked by on his way to the fridge. He retrieved two beers, handed one to his father, drank from the other and said, “So that’s been happening a lot? Grand mal seizures in the living room?”
“Some,” his dad admitted. “It’s a problem with his medicine. Some of what they are giving him for the MND can cause seizures. So then they give him antiseizure medicine. It’s a balancing act. I don’t know why they can’t get it right.” His father tipped the beer bottle back into his mouth. “Gotta get him to Durango, that’s for sure.” He stood up, pushing back his chair and moved into the tiny kitchen and began to clear a space in the sink. “Right now, I need to get him something to eat.”