Jack Who? (Book 1 Draft Version)

CHAPTER 11

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His head tipped inquiringly down, but he wordlessly matched our strides and I let the fabric drop. I wondered if my parent's and Olivia's eyes were on us, but we had taken the hallway away from their seating area, and I didn't dare turn to look. Sure enough, my phone buzzed from my pocket, quietly announcing a text. Ignoring it, for the time being, as we stepped into the elevator as a trio, I looked up at Jack as the doors met, and the floor began to lift.

There was one other occupant besides us three, and that man was intent on the newspaper in his hand. Clearing my throat, I croaked, “Tristan had a reaction to the anesthesia. He's in critical care and that's where we are headed.”

Keeping my gaze pinned on the lit and unlit buttons to the various floors, I refused to watch his reaction. As he had chosen not to be a part of that news in the first place, I was afraid of seeing indifference. Grabbing him as I exited the room had been instinctual, something that if given even a second of thought, I would not have done.

“There is a comfortable area where you will be closer until he wakes.” The nurse filled the silent gap.

“Can I see him right away?” I begged, stepping aside enough for the man, with the rolled up Herald in his hand, to exit onto his floor.

“For just a few minutes,” Gently and concisely, she explained the rules, and when Jack asked a question, she briefed in full, yet again, on the allergic reaction.

He seemed like he wanted to say something more, but looked at me and remained quiet. The tone announced our floor, my phone buzzed, again ignored, and in less than a minute, I was standing at the foot of Tristan's bed.

Hyperventilation threatened my own breathing, as I beheld the ventilation tubes, the IV tubes, and machine paraphernalia around my boy's bed. Dark hair strands were a contrast against the crisp white pillow, a pillow that was half his size or more.

In a flash, I edged around the bed, and my fingers softly settled on his forehead, then brushed at his hair. His breathing was slow and even, as if he were napping, but the hiss of the oxygen flowing into the tube attachment, beneath his nose, whished over the sound of his breath.

Leaning and crouching to his level, I whispered my love, and just crazy nonsense to keep talking. “Tiggy is looking out the window in your room, and guess what? He found a friend here. Wait till you see his new friend...”

For the last couple of minutes, Jack had been completely forgotten, but as I spoke of the new stuffed toy, Bandit, the image of him setting it on the window beside Tiggy replayed in my mind. Twisting, my head found him, frozen at the foot of the bed. Those dark eyes that I could stare into forever, were trained on Tristan, and the unguarded expression took my breath away.

So many vulnerable expressions played in their brown depths, creating a mixture that left me guessing as to what I was seeing. Only one thing was for certain, recognition and acknowledgment of his own flesh and blood.

Feeling my assessment, his gaze skittered to mine, and his shields went up. For a second or two, there was nothing to see, then sympathy lit the dark depths of his gaze as it roved my face.

A nurse appeared, checking vitals, and with a heartening lilt in her voice, related that the numbers she recorded were all good. But, her next words were firm, “Why don't you have a seat in the waiting area, and we will let you know as soon as he wakes.”

“Can I just stand here? I won't get in the way.” Unwilling to take even a step away from the bed, I pleaded.

“I'm sorry, you can't hon. You will be right outside though. Any changes, anything we will update you right away.”

The rooms circled a station where medical staff buzzed like bees around a hive, and Tristan's physician was among them. Upon seeing me, he handed off a chart to another professional, and beelined my way.

Our way. Mentally, I corrected my singular thinking. The doctor's speculative gaze shifted to Jack after he greeted me.

Putting his hand out, the surgeon made his introduction, “Hello, I'm Dr. Millosky. You must be Tristan's father.”

Now, after seeing Tristan, Jack must know how obvious that fact was to everyone. Politely accepting the extended hand, Jack replied simply, without denial or confirmation, smoothly omitting his surname as he introduced himself, “Good to meet you. Jack.”

The surgery itself, as the nurse had said and the surgeon now confirmed, went well. The surgeon accomplished what he set out to do. With therapy, Tristan would be walking crutch free within several weeks. The doctor also explained the circumstances that brought Tristan here in critical care, but that it was only a precaution because he was so young.

To my astonishment, Jack had his own input. “They are saying it is policy that she can't stay in the room with him. If he were in a single room could she be with him?”

The doctor explained that there were no single rooms, due to the sheer number of patients in ICU, but reassured that Tristan would be released into his regular room the next morning barring any complications. When Jack nodded his understanding, the doctor, who had been Tristan's specialist for years, sent a wink my way before moving off.

As I forced my feet away from Tristan's room and toward the waiting area, Jack asked, “What was that about?”

“What?”

Surprisingly, a scowl registered on his face. “He winked at you.”

Evaluating the tone that bordered on jealousy, I didn't immediately answer and pulled out my phone, my mind on informing my parents and Olivia, who after a half hour, would be crazy for information on Tristan.

“So don't tell me. Whatever.” Jack grumbled, and waited until I sat, then took the chair next to me.

“What?” The tone of his words, not his actual words registered, as I studied my phone.  Fifteen missed calls and just as many texts. Tearing my eyes away from the tiny screen, I took in his face once more, and felt a flutter in my stomach when his eyes were all but green. “The wink thing? He just does that. All the time. Not to me.  To Tristan.  Probably it happened, just then, because my insurance does not cover single rooms. But, he knew I paid the difference up front for the room he will be in tomorrow. After, you know, after I got your check.”

Jack digested those words, then inquired quietly of the money, “Was it enough?”

My hand buzzed and yet again my phone went ignored. The sudden concern in his question startled me and I looked into earnest eyes.

“I mean for now, anyway. To begin with,” he elaborated.

A warm sweet feeling, like the coffee Olivia, earlier, put in my cold, shocked hands, infiltrated my heart. Holding his gaze was doing something funny to my insides, and I looked away when I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You know, I could probably raise hell until they let you stay in the room. Just a perk of the occupation.”

Jack was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. At this, my mind stopped processing anything but that thought as I seriously considered it. He was right. Tristan was a rock star's son. That came with such privileges. Although I condemned this sort of behavior, I now understood it when it came to a situation such as this. Protectively, I would have done anything a few minutes ago to have stayed in that room.

Nodding, I replied, “I'll think about it. But it's okay for now. If he—if he gets worse I would want to.  Or if he wakes up and they don't let me.”

“Tell me. Okay? Anything you need.”

“Okay.”

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