Here for You (8 page)

“No. No-no-no-no-no.” Cole rocked back and forth on his heels. “This can’t be happening, not to Brendan. No.”

They wheeled Brendan to surgery, to try to relieve the pressure on his brain, Cole assumed, since nobody was allowed to tell them the facts. Ian stepped closer to him. Their eyes met, and Ian’s gaze mirrored the horror Cole felt inside.

“It’s n-not so bad—” Cole stammered. “He’ll be fine. He’s strong. He’s going to be—” He stalled. Cole clutched desperately at Ian’s starched white shirt. He noticed, almost in a daze, that it wasn’t so white anymore. Ian’s shirt had grime from combing the nature preserve and a dark stain near the collar, like dark jelly. Blood. Brendan’s blood. Cole wanted to scream and tear his hair out. He would have collapsed if Ian hadn’t held him upright.

“T
HIS
MUST
be some mistake.” Tomas’s lips trembled.

Marc pounded his fist into the wall. “Fuck!”

River sat in a chair away from them, his knees pulled to his chest, staring off into space. “He always warned me to be careful on my motorcycle,” he’d said, blinking at them, when he’d first gotten to the hospital. “Brendan worried….” He hadn’t said another word after that.

Ian glanced at Cole, who began to chew his nails raw. Although nobody confirmed it, Ian managed to learn that they’d taken Brendan in for emergency craniotomy. Cole had given the nurses as much medical background information as possible.

Brendan didn’t have insurance, and Ian doubted any of the others did either. Brendan’s parents, located in his cell phone contacts, were on their way from Fort Pierce. Cole, insisting he be the one to do it and not the hospital, had made that phone call, his voice stronger than Ian would have expected, and gentler too.

The police were at this moment investigating the scene, which was standard procedure, although it looked like a freak accident. Ian barely knew how to process that fact. He had been prepared for a hit-and-run, or an attack, but not something so random and senseless. A curve in the trail, a momentary loss of control, a rock in the wrong fucking place—all adding up to a case of horrible, awful, bad luck.

Ian sat next to Cole. He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers in his lap. Cole didn’t say anything to him, but their eyes met for a brief moment.

Then they watched the clock. They waited. The television in the waiting area blared out CNN. Ian took the remote and lowered the volume.

The craniotomy was a last effort to relieve the pressure in Brendan’s head. Based on Brendan’s responses before surgery and body clues, he might have significant brain damage. How significant, the surgeon could not tell them. Okay, logically Ian realized the doctor couldn’t tell them anything before surgery, that only family could speak with the doctor then. But screw logic. Ian wanted to shake him and demand answers. He wasn’t used to being ignored. Ian googled the procedure to find out what the hell was actually going on. As they sat there, he learned that the neurosurgeon used a high-speed drill to make a hole in Brendan’s skull.

The thought of Brendan brought Ian a searing pain. Brendan was so bright, so set on a future… and so damn young. Brendan thought if he worked hard enough, life would reward him and treat him fairly. Ian shut his eyes.

He wished he had something valuable to do… anything to do but sit there.

“I keep thinking,” Cole whispered suddenly, in a voice so low only Ian could possibly hear it, “what if he was awake awhile out there? What if hitting the rock didn’t knock him out right away, and he was out there alone and afraid?”

Ian opened his eyes. “Don’t torture yourself with that kind of thinking.”

“I can’t help it.”

Ian didn’t know what to say. He touched Cole’s thigh.

Cole’s eyes, brimming with fright, held his.

Brendan’s parents finally arrived. They were surprisingly young, Ian thought. The father pressed his lips tightly together, while the mother wailed softly.

“How did this happen? How?” she kept asking them.

“Brendan will be glad you’re here,” Tomas replied.

The parents stared at Tomas and didn’t answer. They kept to themselves in a tiny corner of the room. Brendan had told Ian a little about his parents. They’d been talking politics, and Brendan had shared that his father was ultraconservative. “He’ll offend all your liberal sensibilities,” Brendan had said, which was why Ian had pictured Archie Bunker in his head, instead of a smooth-faced, handsome father barely older than Ian himself.

“And your mom?”

“Homosexuality is a sin.”

“Pope Francis says he doesn’t judge us, and I’d say he’s up there on authority for the Church. Doesn’t your mom know that?” Ian argued, but Brendan only shrugged.

If there was a God and he did have a divine plan, Ian wanted to question it, because none of why this happened to poor Brendan made a bit of sense. Still, lapsed and doubtful Episcopalian that he was, Ian had gone to the hospital chapel earlier, sat on the hard wooden bench, and prayed with all his might for Brendan. He was a good person, a kind person. Ian had seen his share of nasty, bitter people, moving around like cockroaches, spreading misery, and yet it was Brendan, not them, fighting for his life.

Another thing that made no sense to Ian was having parents who barely spoke to you, like Brendan’s, being allowed to decide everything. How he wished Brendan had a living will, something, to document what he would have wanted to do, but Brendan was so young, and like most young people, he believed time was on his side. Guilt washed over Ian. He was the lawyer here; he should have brought this up to Brendan, at least once. Ian had left the chapel, hands jammed in his pockets, trying to rack his brain for something, anything he could do for Brendan.

As soon as the surgeon came into the waiting room, he spoke only to Brendan’s parents as expected, ignoring Brendan’s worried, frantic housemates. Perfectly normal procedure, perfectly understandable—yet it bothered him. It looked too late to be more than a spectator to the tragedy that was unfolding, and Ian felt clammy, sick.

Cole had risen to his feet, like a fighter after too many blows, and Tomas had rushed up to the doctor, but the doctor continued addressing Brendan’s father.

“I removed part of the skull. I treated what hematomas I could, but the damage was extensive, even worse than I feared. The parietal lobe is irreparable, even the frontal lobe….” He trailed off.

“What does all this mean? What can you do next for him?” River interrupted, at last coming out of the numb trance he’d been in for hours and confronting the doctor.

Tomas, who Ian knew studied nursing, turned away from them, shuddering with silent sobs. Marc, seeing Tomas, made a sound of agony low in his throat.

“Yes, what does it mean?” Brendan’s father asked.

“I’m sorry.” The neurosurgeon took a long breath. “I’m afraid it means we can’t help him. Once he stabilizes from the surgery, we will confirm it is brain death, but—”

At that, Brendan’s mother made a keening sound, covering her mouth. She turned into her husband’s arms.

“Can we see him?” his father said in a shaking voice.

“Yes, I’ll send the nurse as soon as he’s in ICU. We will need you to sign papers to terminate the machines too. I’m sorry to mention this now, but you need to also consider if Brendan would want to donate his organs?” The surgeon paused, fingering his scrubs. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I can’t.” Brendan’s mother shook her head adamantly. “I can’t decide all this!” She ran out.

For the next few hours, she and her husband clearly argued and prayed and argued. She spent time alone in Brendan’s room. When she came out, she looked beaten. She linked her hand in her husband’s.

“We are taking him off the machines.” Brendan’s father’s voice sounded firm, but exhausted too.

“I’ll inform the staff,” the doctor said.

“We’re putting it in God’s hands,” his mother said softly, tears in her eyes.

“But no to organ donation. We don’t want our boy—” his father stopped. “We don’t want that done.”

“Wait!” Cole shook his head. “Wait. This is all going too fast! Brendan can fight this!” he looked at them all, his eyes wild with grief, even as Brendan’s parents ignored his outburst. “He can! He’s strong, and doctors don’t know everything. They make mistakes. If he’s left on the machines and given some time—”

“Stop.” River held up a hand. “He’s gone. Don’t you get it, Cole? He’s fucking
gone
already.” His eyes glittered like marbles, his fists clenched. Then he tore out of the waiting room at breakneck speed.

A little while later, Tomas approached them. “We’d like to visit with him too,” Tomas said to Brendan’s parents, tears streaming down his cheeks freely. “Say our good-byes.”

“Brendan has his family,” his father said. “We’ll take care of him.”

“Because you cared so much about him all these years?” Marc snapped, and then stopped when Tomas laid a hand on his shoulder.

Marc buried himself in Tomas’s arms. Brendan’s mother and father walked stiffly away, looking years older than they had when Ian first saw them only hours ago.

“They don’t know everything,” Cole repeated.

He stared at Ian, and Ian stared back, a lump in his throat.

Cole hid nothing. Ian could see it all on his face: hope, misery, love.

B
RENDAN
’
S
FOLKS
,
after spending time with Brendan in ICU, relented and let in Cole, Tomas, and Ian to see him. River was long gone from the hospital, but Marc was still there, raging and too worked up to go into Brendan’s room. They were only allowed in two at a time. Tomas went first. Cole knew he’d stroke Brendan’s fingers, talk to him in that gentle deep voice of his, maybe take a washcloth and bathe his face. Tomas focused on asking the nurses questions, not intimidated by the loud machines or patients wheeled by them. Cole wanted to go in and steal Brendan away. He wanted to take him home.

Brendan had struck his head less than twenty-four hours ago. How was that even possible?

Cole buried his anger better than Marc, but he couldn’t meet Brendan’s mother’s gaze, not since she’d dismissed him. Brendan’s parents—a couple who’d never visited, though they lived not far away, and rarely called as far as Cole knew—now decided when they, Brendan’s truest friends, his brothers, could see him. The friends had no rights. Neither did Brendan. His parents had signed to turn off his breathing machines and still decided not to donate his organs.

Fuck them.
Cole knew that Brendan would have chosen to fight, to live. He loved those shows on television where medical miracles happened. He was the most optimistic, positive person Cole had ever known, and he would have wanted more time, at least to try. Okay, maybe he’d never be the same, but River had to be wrong. Brendan might still be there deep down, somewhere.

Cole brushed away a tear. Tomas, looking ashen, appeared out of Brendan’s ICU room.

“You two should go in.”

“Do you want me to wait?” Ian asked softly. “Would you like to go in alone too?”

Cole shook his head. For some reason, he wanted Ian next to him. Ian had a quiet strength about him, and Cole was ready to fall to his knees.

They could see Brendan through the glass window of his ICU room, but it wasn’t the same as going in and seeing him up close. Cole looked numbly at it all. His gaze swept over the machines, beeping incessantly, the tube sticking in Brendan’s mouth, another connected to his nose. He didn’t know what any of them did exactly, but he knew they would be removed soon. Cole stared at Brendan’s chest rising and falling. If he only looked there, and nowhere else, Brendan might simply be asleep.

“Hi, Brendan. It’s Ian.” Ian touched the side of Brendan’s face. Cole wished he could talk too, but words jammed in his throat. He walked closer and took Brendan’s hand, careful of his IV.

Brendan’s curled fingers were cold. His hair had been shaved away for his craniotomy. He had no smile or expression on his face.

Brendan had the best smile.

“Cole’s here too,” Ian said. “We’re both right here.”

Bending slowly at his waist, like an old-fashioned gentleman might do, Cole raised Brendan’s hand and kissed it. But this was no ballroom. The artificial lights hummed over their heads. There was no music. The room was freezing. Yet Cole didn’t want to release Brendan’s hand. He clung to it for as long as he could.

C
OLE
LOST
track of time: how long they’d stood over Brendan before a nurse entered and asked them to give her a moment; how long Cole, Tomas, and Marc had done nothing else but wait for the end, while Brendan’s parents talked quietly with Ian. What they had to say to each other, Cole had no idea. Maybe they thought Ian was Brendan’s boss but not one of those gay men like his “degenerate roommates”? Brendan’s parents acted as if they were generous for allowing his friends to stay in the waiting room or visit Brendan at all.

Brendan had loved his parents and been saddened by their rejection. He tried on holidays, on birthdays. Unlike the rest of them, he didn’t completely give up hoping that one day his folks would accept him, the real him, and they’d repair their relationship. It broke Cole’s heart to watch year after year as Brendan got his hopes up, only for disappointment to crush him.

“Not this year?” he’d ask, attempting to smile, a frozen look on his face. “Maybe next Christmas.”

Brendan’s parents had never said they were sorry, not once, for acting like that.

Cole walked away from Tomas and Marc. He sat down in a chair at the end of the hallway and covered his face with his arms. He couldn’t go back in to see Brendan, not again, because it had shown him that River was right. That his stupid, petty, small-minded folks were right.