I watch him cut for a moment, trying to figure out what I can possibly say to him. “Not yet, Tobes, but hopefully soon.”
He glances up at me, surprised, and two things hit me at once. One, I called him by his nickname for the first time in ages. And two, his eyes are on me and not on his hands, where they should be when he’s using a pair of sharp kitchen shears instead of the safety scissors he’s supposed to be using.
Like everything else horrible, it happens in slow motion, yet quick as a blink. The scissors slip and collide with the index finger of his left hand. Blood immediately spurts out, rolling down his hand, dripping on the table, spattering the cotton balls and construction paper and the leftover crusts of his sandwich.
Tobias drops the scissors and screams.
My throat aches to do the same, scream and scream until someone comes, someone who can deal with this. Someone who can act quickly and confidently instead of sitting here like a statue, too stunned to even move. But no one is coming, and all my brother has right now is me.
“Tobias,” I say, but my voice is too weak to carry over his panicked crying. So I say it again, louder, and the force behind it propels me out of my chair and over to his. As I get closer, I can see the skin on his finger, gaping wide like a mouth. The copper tang of blood hits my nostrils and I hold my breath, willing myself not to faint.
“I want Mom,” Tobias wails, staring wide-eyed at his sliced finger.
Instinctively, I grab a clean dishtowel from the drawer beside the sink and fold it into a thick rectangle, then wrap it around his finger. He flinches, which makes me flinch, but I keep going, pressing the cloth snugly against the cut.
“Hold that there so I can call Mom,” I tell him, snatching my cell off the table. “And keep your hand up high, okay? It’ll help with the bleeding.”
Mom doesn’t pick up, and my call goes to voice mail after a few rings. I hang up and try Dad, but his voice mail kicks in after only one ring, which probably means he’s precariously balanced on a high roof somewhere, unable to take calls. I try Mom again, anxious sweat gathering along my hairline as I wait. When she doesn’t answer the second time, or the third, I take a deep breath, try to ignore my rising panic, and force myself to think.
Tobias needs stitches. That much I’m sure of. Stitches require a doctor, and seeing a doctor requires a trip to the hospital. But how do we get there? It’s too far to walk, and I don’t have any cash for a taxi. A cut finger isn’t serious enough for an ambulance, even with all this blood. The bus takes too long, and even if I did have my license, I don’t have access to a car.
The only option left is asking someone to drive us.
“Dara?”
Ethan’s voice sets off a blast of conflicting emotions inside me—relief and confusion laced with sharp pangs of longing. We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since I walked out of his house four days ago, interrupting a conversation that begged to be finished. And unlike the first time I walked out on him, on New Year’s Day, he hasn’t attempted to reach out to me even once. I know he’s probably just giving me time to think and figure things out on my own, but his absence still hurts. Missing him is an ache that never subsides, not even now, when my mind is overwhelmed with urgency.
Finding my voice, I tell him about the scissors and Tobias’s finger and my inability to get ahold of my parents. He’s silent through it all, listening and evaluating.
“What do you need?” he asks when I’m through.
I glance at Tobias. He’s still sitting at the table, his wounded hand exactly where I told him to position it, raised above his heart. His scared blue eyes are fastened on me, waiting for me to make this okay. “A drive to the ER,” I tell him. “I’m sorry, but you were the first person I thought of.”
A long pause follows, and if I weren’t so desperate I’d probably feel like a total idiot. But there’s no time right now for awkwardness and leftover tension. Not when my little brother’s blood is quickly soaking through his dishtowel.
“Well,” Ethan says finally. “I’m grounded, so I’m not supposed to be going anywhere in my car . . .” There’s another pause, but this one is much shorter. “Fuck it. I’ll be right there.”
I spend the entire ride to the hospital watching Tobias, monitoring his color, making sure he’s not going to puke or pass out. My mind is so focused on him, I don’t even have a chance to dwell on the strange, edgy vibe between Ethan and me. I’ll do it later, when my head is clearer and my senses aren’t overwhelmed with blood.
“Thanks,” I say when Ethan stops in front of the emergency entrance. I push open the back door. “Let’s go, Tobias.”
Ethan twists around to look at me. “Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, like I’m the one with the gaping flesh wound.
I nod quickly and get out, then reach inside the car to help my brother. His dishtowel is soaked through again, the blue and yellow stripes obscured with bright red. I wonder how much blood an average-sized nine-year-old boy can lose before he collapses. I don’t want to find out.
The second we enter the busy ER waiting room, I forget about Ethan and focus on the tasks at hand. First, I get Tobias registered, using the insurance card I keep in a safe section of my wallet. After he’s been triaged and we’re back in the waiting room, I pull out my phone again. No messages from either of my parents, so I send Mom a text, explaining what happened.
As I’m typing, I dimly notice someone sitting down in the chair next to me. The place is packed, so I assume it’s another patient until I catch Ethan’s familiar woodsy scent.
“I thought you left,” I say, surprised.
He shrugs carelessly, but his shoulders are tense. “Figured I’d keep you company while you wait.”
Looking at him, it occurs to me that he probably hasn’t been in this hospital since Aubrey died. The ambulance brought her here, even though it was too late, and one of the doctors had to break the news to him and his parents. Being here can’t be easy for him.
On my other side, Tobias shifts in his chair and whimpers. The triage nurse redressed his cut with tape and gauze, but even that’s not keeping the blood from seeping through. “It hurts,” he whispers, his eyes glassy with tears.
“It’ll feel better soon,” I assure him, even though I have no idea if it will or not. “Remember the time you fell off your bike and scraped up your knees? It only hurt for a little while, right?”
He nods, bottom lip wobbling. “Mom cleaned the scrapes and put stuff on that made them sting.”
“But then you felt better, and you were back on your bike a few minutes later. It hurts now, but keep reminding yourself it won’t last forever.”
He nods again, but I’m not sure he’s all the way convinced. My words seemed to have calmed him, though, and he sucks in a breath, steeling himself against the pain.
I look over at Ethan, meeting his eyes for the first time since he sat down. “I’m sure my parents will be here soon,” I tell him. “You don’t have to stay. I got this.”