“Does she have any other injuries?” Joe asked.
“Only minor ones, sir. An incomplete fracture of the left fibula bone. That’s nothing—the tibia is what bears the weight, the fib just gives backup. I doubt it would need to be pinned. Swelling of the left ankle may indicate some ligament damage. She will have a full orthopedic assessment tomorrow. As I said, the vascular issues must take priority. It does no good to set a broken leg if we cannot get blood to it.”
“Of course.”
“But if you need an orthopedic surgeon, I recommend Dr. Bonanto at the Kendall Center. For this kind of case, he’s the one you want.”
“I’ll get him,” Joe said.
Dr. Jinani looked at Erik then, taking in his weary and bloodied appearance. “Were you there when it happened? Are you all right?”
Erik nodded.
The doctor nodded as well and his expression was both sympathetic and ironic—a corner of his mouth twitched as if he were trying not to smile too broadly. “Would you like to see your sister now?”
Erik exhaled soft laughter. Busted. Yet grateful. “I would,” he said. “Let my mother go first though.”
Francine made to stand up but Joe set his hand on her knees, stilling her. He looked at Erik. “You go on in.”
“No,” Erik said. “No, you go.”
Joe smiled then, raising a finger. “You go now, son.”
Erik went. The nurse got him a gown and she walked him to Daisy’s room. “Is she awake?”
“She was awake in recovery but then we started her on morphine for pain and she’s dropped off again. The best thing she can do is sleep right now.” The nurse stopped at the last door on the corridor and paused, her hand on the knob. “All right?” she said.
Erik drew in a breath. “All right.”
He went in.
“Isn’t she cold?” It was the first thing he thought. “She’s always cold.”
“She’s fine,” the nurse said, with a reassuring smile. “She doesn’t feel cold.”
They had her in an over-sized hospital johnnie, white with little blue flowers. Emerging from the short sleeves, her arms looked fragile, bony, like a starving child’s. A flimsy blue sheet was tucked around her waist and her right leg. Her left leg was exposed, the thigh swathed in gauze, the calf and foot stabilized between two long foam planks. IV lines in one arm, a blood pressure cuff on the other, along with a pulse monitor clipped to her index finger. A tube ran under her nose, delivering oxygen.
The nurse moved aside a rolling tray with some kind of monitor. “Go ahead, you can get close.”
Gingerly, Erik moved in. He felt the slightest misstep—a tube jiggled, a machine jostled, an inadvertent knock against the bed—might kill her. He curled his fingers around her hand, drew it into his palm, squeezed it. His other hand hovered above her forehead. He glanced at the nurse, who nodded. “You can touch her, it’s all right. Talk to her.” She stepped out of the room.
Erik laid his hand flat on Daisy’s forehead. Her skin was cool and dry. Miraculously her hair was still up in its ballet bun, although falling loose, toppled slightly sideways now. He bent lower, brushed his lips along her hairline, inhaling for just a hint of her perfume. A trace of sugar-soap scent would have been enough to soothe him. But her skin smelled sharply of alcohol, and dully of sweat, and another underlying odor, plastic and manufactured, like adhesive tape or latex.
Erik carefully set his cheek on her head, not allowing any weight to press on her, but letting her feel his skin. He closed his eyes. He waited to weep, but no tears came. Nothing but this numb shock, and an all-encompassing, pervasive sadness with no outlet.
Talk to her, the nurse had said, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Not when she was like this, shot down, ripped open, broken. Not even smelling like herself.