“Mary?” he asked stupidly, as she put her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Mary, it's me, Officer Truax. Michael.” He put his hand up and felt the warmth and wetness on his uniform, vaguely wondering what could make his hand warm on such a cold night.
“Can't go,” she said sadly, so quietly he wondered if he'd really heard it. Her eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Michael?”
The young officer from the other patrol car heard Mary ranting and quickened his pace, coming around the building fast. “Shit,” he muttered, drawing his weapon. “Freeze!” He crouched into position, his gun trained on Mary, who stood in the pool of light, hysterical again and ranting. Her ragged clothing swirled around her, her arms raised to gather them.
“
N
o
!” shouted Michael, wondering why his voice seemed so far away. “Don't hurt her!” But she had launched herself at the other police officer, and it was too late. By the time Michael slumped to the ground, Mary was dead.
* * *
As always on windy days, Tristan's chemistry professor was talking in an excited, somewhat agitated cadence that burst and sputtered like she was experiencing occasional power surges. Tristan expected that at any minute she would arc and spark like a transformer blowing. He was taking notes off and on and spinning his pencil in his hand like a rotor when a noise alerted him to an incoming text message. It was his mother.
Call me 911 Emergency immediately 911
. He grabbed up his things and bumbled them out the door of the classroom where he dropped his pack on the ground and called his mother. He listened numbly as she told him what she knew, then jerked his bag over his shoulder and ran the distance to the parking lot. His heart raced, his mind a blank, and all he could think of was the first few words of the Lord's Prayer. “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
To be fair, Tristan thought on the excruciatingly slow drive to Fullerton, he had always known two words could change the world. I'm pregnant. You're fired.
It's war
. When his mother said, “It's Michael,” Tristan felt his whole world crumble beneath his feet like the overpriced real estate under the Laguna Canyon homes that slid down the muddy hills each year. “It's Michael” meant everything and nothing. It meant the difference between what he wanted and never wanting again; it meant his life. Michael
was
his life.
The thought couldn't come to Tristan straight on that Michael had been injured on the job. It seemed he had to come to it obliquely, from odd angles.
St. Jude Medical Center is a good hospital and Michael is strong. Journalists exaggerate, hyping stories for effect. Christmas is only two weeks away and Tristan still hadn't had the time to decide what would be an appropriate gift
. He could barely perceive the inevitable truth: Michael was in the hospital, in surgery, in serious condition, prognosis unknown.
Tristan tried Emma's cell phone time and again, but it went straight through to voicemail. By the time Tristan got off the 91 Freeway going north on Harbor, his teeth were chattering. He went through all the motions at the hospital, parking in the appropriate lot, finding his way in, going to the registration desk, finding the right place to ask about Michael. He gathered his courage.
“I'm here…” he began, swallowing hard. “I'm here for Michael Truax. I…is Officer Truax all right?” He looked around the waiting room and saw a uniformed police officer pacing and two others talking quietly.
“I'm sorry, are you a relative of the patient?” asked the woman behind the desk kindly.
“No, I…uh…I'm a friend. I'm Tristan Phillips. Officer Truax and I… He's my—” He broke off. Did Michael's cop coworkers know he was gay? He bit his lip. “We're friends.”
“I'm sorry,” said the woman. “I can only give patient information to immediate family.
“I…is Emma here?” he asked, growing alarmed. “Emma Truax? Michael's mother? Is she here?”
“No, she's been notified, but she is not here.” The woman seemed to have nothing further to say.
“But,” said Tristan, his throat doing a stinging, burning kind of thing that left his voice scratchy and fading. “He's my best friend. He needs to know I'm here. I promised I'd be there for him if anything happened.” He raised his voice. “I
promised
him.”
“I'm sorry, son,” she said again kindly, but now a little stonier. “It's hospital policy
and
against the law for me to divulge information about a patient.”
“Can't you…can't you tell him I'm here?” he asked. “Tristan.”
“Son, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to go sit down. You can wait if you like till a family member gets here.” She had other things to do, he could tell.
“But…no!” he cried, starting to get a little desperate, raising his voice, breathing hard. Tears stung his eyes. “I can't. I promised. Can't you just tell him something for me? Can't you just tell him…”
“Something I can do for you?” asked a man, coming up behind Tristan. He didn't need to turn to know it was one of the police officers he'd seen in the waiting room.
“Officer,” said Tristan turning to find a man about thirty-five wearing the familiar FPD uniform. “I'm a friend of Michael's, but they won't…” He looked into hard and wary eyes. Implacable eyes.
“Son, this is a hospital. There's no need to raise your voice,” he said. “Officer Truax's condition is unknown at this time.”
“But I…” said Tristan.
“His mother is on her way from Las Vegas,” said the man, whose badge read “Villardo.” “We're all worried. Come and have a seat.” He eyed Tristan carefully as though he were going to erupt, but led him to an area where Tristan could sit down amidst a group of bored-looking strangers, who all looked like one family, also tiredly waiting.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“No, I'm sorry,” said Officer Villardo.
“The report on the news said he was stabbed,” said Tristan, a little quieter, but no less angry. “I should think if they can report it to the press, they can tell his best damn friend.”
Officer Villardo appeared to think for a moment. It was clear he didn't care what Tristan said. He wasn't family, and he wasn't in uniform, so he just didn't count. “Stabbed? That's accurate,” he said grimly.
Tristan sagged in his seat. “Do you know how bad it was?” he asked in a whisper.
Officer Villardo sat opposite Tristan, his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. It took him a long time to answer. He seemed to give the question a great deal of conscious thought. He sighed. “Bad,” was all he said.
Tristan nodded, getting up. He left all his personal belongings on the chair to mark his place and then found the men's room and threw up until he had nothing left in his body to purge.
After the first hour of waiting, Tristan stopped hearing the
Jeopardy
theme in his head. It was eleven in the morning by that time, and the hospital was bustling with activity. Different uniformed officers came and went, conferring with each other quietly, the thin blue line stretched thinner with the injury of one of their own. Tristan saw the strain of confronting in real time the danger that they probably didn't allow themselves to contemplate normally on their faces. The danger he hadn't allowed himself to consider at all.
Tristan's head had been throbbing since he'd puked. He'd felt his vertebrae snap with the intensity of his retching, so it didn't surprise him that his head ached. He wondered briefly if he was like his dad, and he had a flaw somewhere that would just give way someday, like maybe when he puked, only to burst like a dam to drown his brain and end his life. His father had been dead before he'd hit the ground. Express lane, no stops, no waiting. For his shocked family, it had been hard, but not like this. Not like sitting in this crowded room waiting for word. Not like for Tristan, who was no one to these people; they passed him by and looked beyond him like he didn't exist. He wondered bitterly if he'd been a pretty nineteen-year-old girl with an engagement ring on her finger, if they would have treated him differently. He
knew
they would have.
The challenge had been to close his eyes briefly and to find solace in a kind of quiet contemplation and prayer, except Tristan couldn't remember how to do that. His eyes were closed against the harsh fluorescent lighting, and he was trying, when he felt a body drop into the seat next to him. The vinyl cushion exhaled a sigh, and he opened his eyes to find his mother by his side.
“This blows,” she said, in that way she had of expressing herself in an endearingly inarticulate manner when it counted the most. Tristan couldn't help it; the eyes he thought dry swam with tears, and he sobbed a greeting to his mother, who took him in her arms as if he were still four.
“They won't tell me anything,” he said, pulling back. “I'm no one. I've been trying to call Emma.”
“Shh, baby,” Julia crooned to him. “Shh. Emma called my cell; she's on her way. She's flying back from Vegas, honey, and she can't take calls. She'll be here soon, as soon as she can.”
“Mom,” he said, but he couldn't go further. Here was a woman who'd lost her life partner in the time it took to choose a drive-through, and he couldn't ask her what he wanted to ask. He couldn't bear to ask her how she survived.
“Has there been any change?” she asked.
“They won't tell me anything,” he said bitterly. “I don't count. Hospital policy. He could be dead; no one will even talk to me. He could just be lying there waiting for Emma to come so they can turn off…”
“I saw on the local news he was out of surgery and in serious but stable condition, and they're cautiously optimistic.”
Tristan stared at her. “Am I going crazy? They wouldn't tell
me
, but they announce it on the damned news?” He slumped farther and rested his head on his mother's shoulder, something he was really too tall for now. “That's good news anyway,” he sighed, feeling the first blush of hope in his heart. “How could I even…”
“You could. You just would,” she said. “It's not a multiple choice questionnaire where you get to check the best answer box.”
“You ought to know.”
“Yep,” said his mother, her face like a marble madonna. “I ought to know.”
“Mom?”
“Hm?”
“I don't know if I can lose someone again. I don't know if I can stay sane if it happens.”
Julia looked at Tristan and interlaced her freckled hand with his. “You shouldn't have to, but you'll cope. I believe you'll cope,” she said.