“I don’t know anything about that, Mr. Prescott. I know you were brought in by ambulance, and there were some officers talking to the blonde girl who was with you. That’s all.”
I nodded and laid my head back, already exhausted with the little effort it took to write. Maybe it was an aftereffect of the anesthesia or my punctured diaphragm. In any case, I laid my head back and waited for the doctor, my eyes slipping closed as I rested.
I came to again in a hospital room, Alix sitting in the chair next to my bed, holding my hand. The tube was out, but I was wearing one of those masks that go over your entire mouth and nose. I squeezed her fingers weakly, smiling at her tired face.
“Alix,” I whispered, unheard to her through my mask. I tugged the mask down enough to say the most important words on my mind. “You’re safe.”
She blinked and nodded, her tear-streaked face puffy from crying. “You need to put your mask back on,” she said, helping me reseat the mask. “The doctors told me that was very important.”
I looked around for a pen and paper, miming writing. Alix nodded and reached behind my head, grabbing a small white board and pen. “The doctor said you might find this easier and less messy,” she said, handing it to me. “Go ahead.”
Dad and Mom?
“I told them you were injured, but that they needed to go ahead with the press conference. Tell the press that we were in an accident or something. They don’t know how bad it was. So they delayed it some, but it’s still going to be live on the ten o’clock news. It’s nearly ten now.”
Cops?
“They know you were attacked by Sydney, but not why. There is an APB out on him, but he’s disappeared somewhere. They’re looking for him.”
You’re okay?
“I’m unhurt, yes,” she said, maintaining control of herself as she read my words. “Why’d you attack him, Kade?”
I lost my control . . .
“Well, Kade Prescott, I love you, and I don’t ever want to feel your blood staining my hands again. You understand me?”
What about the blackmail?
“I don’t care about that right now,” she said quietly.
I looked into her eyes, seeing unimaginable strength, and nodded. Taking my pen in hand again, I wiped the board clear and wrote what was important then. Okay. I love you.
There was a knock at the door, and a doctor came in. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties, and had the satisfied demeanor of a man who’d done a good job. I immediately erased what I’d written and looked up at him. “Hi, Mr. Prescott, I’m Doctor Harrington. I was your lead surgeon on your patch job.”
How is it?
“Not as bad as it could have been,” he said after reading the note. “The blade punctured your diaphragm but didn’t get the lungs themselves, so most of the work was in repairing the diaphragm itself and making sure everything stays where it is supposed to be. How’s your stomach feel?”
Numb, can’t really feel anything below my chest.
“Good, we’ve got a nerve block in there right now, but that’s going to be wearing off soon. I’m not going to lie, it’s going to be painful. Want to see?”
I nodded, and the doctor came over to lift my blanket down before undoing my thin cover. The bandage ran for about six inches, from just below my nipple line to about halfway down my stomach. “We had to do what’s called a laparotomy, mostly to open up the chest and stitch the diaphragm shut, then go poking around to make sure that you didn’t have any other major injuries. You nicked a few things in there, but nothing too major. Whatever you were stabbed with, it was small enough to just scrape over your xiphoid process and get the diaphragm itself mostly, without penetrating enough to get to the lungs.”
What’s my recovery time?
“Oh, you’re going to be on the mask for at least a few more days,” Dr. Harrington said. “And you’re going to be in a lot of pain for those few days. The diaphragm is a tough muscle, and we did a good job fixing the hole, but it’s still not going to be pleasant. After that, a few weeks if there are no other complications.”
I suppose this ruins my swimsuit season.
“You could say that. You’re going to have a very impressive scar there when all is said and done.”
The doctor patted me on the shoulder. “By the way, I heard that you are Derek Prescott’s son. Alix here was very insistent that we not tell him about the true nature of your injuries, but if you want, he’s supposed to be making a statement for the live news. Would you like me to turn it on?”
I nodded and Harrington reached over my head and found the television remote. He hit the switch, and the small TV near my bed flashed on. He switched around until he found the local ABC news and handed me the remote. “You mind if I watch here with you? Your father spearheaded a fundraising drive for the hospital last year, and I’d love to see what he’s got to say live.”
“Of course, Doctor,” Alix said, reaching over and taking my hand. The tagline on the screen read Local Community Leader to Make Announcement, Expected to Run for Congress.