Marissa Quail may be a saint, but that scene with Sabrina wasn’t Jordan’s fault.
It was mine.
“Do whatever you want for breakfast. Can I just go back to sleep?” Jordan asks, yawning into his hand.
“Yeah, sure. Do you want the couch or a guest room?”
“Can I just, like, stay on the couch and fall asleep to the TV?” he asks. “You have Netflix?”
At first, I’m about to tell him no, he needs a bed. Then I remember all the times I fell asleep to cartoons when I was his age.
I lead the way to the living room.
“Tell me—how horrible was I to Brina?” I ask. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Dude. My buddy talked to a cheerleader like that once,” he says.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“She poured a chocolate shake on his head after the game.” He snickers at the memory.
Great. More to look forward to.
Jordan passes out on the couch in under thirty minutes. I head for the kitchen, open the pantry, and then the fridge. Everything is in its place, sleek and untouched.
I rarely eat at home. There’s not much food in the kitchen, mostly snacks in the cupboards, keto butter and heavy cream for coffee, and some eggs.
When I got to the hospital last night, he’d already been there for several hours. I don’t think the kid ate since lunch yesterday. I’ve got to get some food in him today.
I stare at my phone, wishing Brina would call or text. She doesn’t, though, and I can’t blame her one bit.
I’ll have to come up with a real apology.
Flopping down at my home office, I Google “kid food,” “food for teenagers,” and “young adult nutrition.” Hamburgers, hotdogs, nachos, and pizzas pop up.
Yeah, not for breakfast, or when I’m light on antacids.
I’m not young enough for this shit anymore. I try “teenager breakfast food.”
The links show sugary cereals, donuts, pancakes, and French toast.
Ordering food is something I can handle. I pull up a delivery app and order two pancake breakfasts and an orange juice from my favorite cafe while I start brewing my Kona coffee.
When Jordan wakes up, breakfast sits in the brown paper sack on the coffee table, and I’m on the phone with the hospital.
“How can I help you?” the operator asks.
“I need Marissa Quail’s room, please. I think it’s four fifty-three,” I say.
“I’ll transfer you right away, sir.”
Jordan sits up on the couch and stares at me with a clenched jaw.
The phone rings in my ear seven times before the operator picks up again. “How may I help you?”
“I was transferred to room four fifty-three, and it bounced back to you,” I say. “Could I speak to her nurse? I just want to make sure she’s okay. I was hoping she’d be doing better this morning.”
“Do you know the patient’s unit?” the operator asks.
“ICU,” I tell her.
The phone rings in my ear again. I mute the call for a second.
“Jordan, I ordered pancakes if you’re hungry.” I slide the package closer.
He doesn’t answer but his eyes don’t leave me.
“ICU, this is Nurse Becky. How can I help you?”
I take a deep breath. “I wanted an update on Marissa Quail’s condition.”
“Can I ask who’s calling? I need to make sure you’re on the approved list,” she says.
“Magnus Heron, her emergency contact.”
The clicking of computer keys fills the phone. Then the nurse sighs.
“She’s still in a coma. Stable. She could wake up any time.”
“But we flew in that surgeon overnight—”
“Right,” she says. “And that’s why she’s no worse off. Traumatic brain injuries are precarious. She sustained multiple direct blows to the skull. It could go either way right now, but we’re all rooting for her. I’d recommend coming in to visit.”
“And your visiting hours start at nine?” I ask, aware of Jordan’s eyes riveted to my face and his white knuckles from the grip he has on my couch pillow.
“That’s right.”
“In your experience, with comas...you’re thinking she could be there for a while?”
The nurse sighs again. “If she goes home, it’s not going to be for a while.”
The word if hangs in the balance. If she goes home.
Fuck.
I study the kid—my little brother—perched on the couch. We need to find a way to bond, or at least co-exist, because he’s going to be here for who knows how long.
Shit. I hope his mom pulls through. Jordan has already lost so much, and now he’s in a world of trouble. I know what it’s like having Baxter Heron for a father.
Jordan thinks he’s been deprived because he’s never met our dad. I know he’s better off.
“Eat breakfast and we’ll go see your—”
“Is she okay?” He doesn’t let me finish the sentence.
“She’s in a coma,” I tell him as calmly as possible. “But she has the best medical team money can buy, I assure you.”
Jordan jumps up on his feet. “We don’t have time to eat. It’s almost eight thirty. We have to go see Mom.”
I’m exhausted, slumped in an overstuffed chair, thinking what to say. The boy has to eat some time.
“Dude.” He looks at me expectantly. “I meant like now.”
The kid drives a hard bargain.
“I’ll call my driver.” I go to the kitchen and pour my coffee into a cup with a lid.
Yet another reason I hate myself for flaying Brina so raw with my words.
I won’t survive this day without a whole heaping lot of coffee, and now I’ve got to supply my own dumb ass.
We’ve spent the last hour in Marissa’s hospital room in total silence.
The poor woman looks awful. She’s pale with bruises on her face, her skin swollen. I can tell from Jordan’s expression that he’s about to lose it. His lower lip keeps trembling, like he’s trying to put on the brave face a man carries around like a mask, but it can’t hold up forever.
“Do you like sports?” I ask.
“Huh?” Jordan looks up from another world, dazed.
“You’re tall. Do you play basketball? I did when I was your age.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Are you on the school team?”
He shakes his head. He hasn’t said two words to me since our last confrontation this morning, and he doesn’t look like he wants to talk right now, either.
“What, are you being shy? You weren’t so shy around me this morning.”
He shrugs, sullen. “I’m not shy. I’ve got other things on my mind. Take a hint.”
Right. If only surly teenagers came with handbooks...
Holding in a rough sigh, I look at his mom in the hospital bed with IVs and monitors hooked to both arms and stitches across her head.
“You still haven’t eaten,” I say quietly. “Would you like something from the vending machine? Or cafeteria?”
“I’m not hungry,” he grinds out, shaking his head.
Yeah. This isn’t working. The kid’s a brick wall, just like I’d be in his position.