Randall was sweating when the nurse guided him into the dimly lit room. His eyes were drawn immediately to the single bed, the indefinable heap beneath the white sheets that was his brother. Inwardly, he cursed, both fate and the bastard responsible.
Knowing he couldn't let his emotions get in the way of what lay ahead, he took a deep breath and kept moving. The room was high-tech, even for a hospital, and more closely resembled an operating room, equipped for emergencies, as if that sort of thing happened often in this ward.
Above the bed, two monitors beeped. Lower, an I.V. bag and two larger bags filled with bodily fluids and blood hung like grotesque ornaments. The hiss of the respirator filled the silence with horrible sound.
The sight of Jack hit him like a fist to the stomach. He held his breath, knowing his brother's eyes were on him, knowing he couldn't allow himself to react.
Jack was lying on his back with two small cylindrical pillows cradling his head. A quarter-inch-thick tube ran from the respirator into his mouth. A second, thinner tube protruded from his left nostril.
Feeling a drop of sweat trickle between his shoulder blades, Randall peeled off his parka and draped it over the back of the chair beside the bed. Then he met his brother's gaze. The two men stared at each other for a full minute, weighing reactions, reining in their emotions, giving the other time to do the same. Only Jack would do that for me, Randall thought, struggling to keep the fear and the rage at bay. This wasn't the place for it. He needed to be strong. For Jack. For the woman waiting for him in the hall.
"Hi, big brother." His voice sounded normal as he moved to the side of the bed. "Goddammit,” he whispered as he drew near.
Jack managed a weak thumbs-up.
Randall's chest tightened. "Are you in any pain?"
Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. A thick section of gauze covered one side of his face from temple to chin. Another bandage ran the length of his arm, all the way to his fingers.
As the respirator pumped air into his brother's lungs, Randall watched, wondering how in the hell this could have happened, trying to convince himself it wasn't his fault.
"I should have been there for you," he said.
Jack tried to speak and ended up struggling with the respirator tube. Feeling awkward, knowing that somehow, this was humiliating for him, Randall turned away as the nurse checked the respirator and murmured something about relaxation.
When he turned back, the nurse was gone and Jack's eyes were closed. Randall crossed the room and pulled the ladder-back chair closer to the bed. "Jack?"
His brother's eyes opened and slowly focused on him.
“What the hell happened?"
Jack raised his hand, jiggling the I.V. tubes before letting it fall back to the bed at his side. Even through the pain-killing drugs and the remnants of anesthesia, his eyes took on an intensity that told Randall he had something to tell him.
Randall leaned closer until his face was inches from his brother's. He held his breath against the garlicky odor of anesthesia and the unmistakable stench of singed hair and flesh. "What are you trying to say?"
Jack made a sound that was closer to a groan than an intelligible word.
Suddenly crushed by guilt, overwhelmed by exhaustion and the jagged remnants of his own rage, Randall pulled back and lowered his face into his hands. For the first time in a long time, he felt like crying. Christ, he hadn't even spoken with the doctor, yet here he was questioning a man who was too weak to breathe on his own.
For a moment, the surreal hiss of the respirator was the only sound. But it was the unmistakable sound of frustration that snapped Randall's head up. Jack raised his hand, flexing his bandaged knuckles. Only when his index finger and thumb came together did Randall realize what he wanted.
Heart pounding, he jumped up and reached for his parka, withdrawing his checkbook and pen. Never taking his eyes from Jack, Randall tore a blank deposit ticket from the book and carried the pen and paper back to his brother.
"Is this what you want?" he asked.
Jack nodded.
Randall put the pen in Jack's right hand, closing his fingers around it. Then he held the back of his checkbook to the paper. "What are you trying to tell me?"
Raising his head slightly, Jack scrawled something on the paper.
Randall looked at the paper. The name scrawled in black ink cut through him like a shotgun blast. Stukins had been right, he thought with disbelief. He stared, his brain refusing to acknowledge the implications or venture to imagine what the repercussions might be.
When he was able, Randall tore his eyes away from the name and looked at Jack. "Addison's father?"
His brother nodded once before closing his eyes and drifting off to a place Randall never wanted to go.