Chapter 32…
"Help! I need help here!" Erik shouted as he shoved the ER's door out of his way. In his arms, Charles' body was limp; the other man's left arm was slumped across his chest, his right one dangling lifelessly from Erik's grasp.
The ER's lobby was flooded with soon-to-be patients and family members. A man clutched a bloody towel to his arm. A woman sat with a puke bucket beside her. There were children in the waiting area as well, sweaty and sick like a classroom for the infected. The stench of vomit and body odor practically poisoned the air.
From behind a reception desk, a dark-skinned nurse with an afro hurried from her desk, curiosity wrinkling her face. As her sneakers squeaked to a stop in front of them, she checked Charles' pulse and then sprang a flashlight from her skirt's pocket.
"When did he lose consciousness?" she asked as she flicked the light in Charles' eyes.
His pupils didn't contract.
"I wasn't there," Erik said.
The curiosity on her visage darkened; the woman reeled around to the reception area again. She hollered at a couple more nurses, noting Charles' non-reactive pupils and weak pulse. Get a stretcher. Get a doctor…it happened with the speed of a lightening bolt striking a tree.
A stretcher appeared from one of the back rooms along with two men in white coats and another nurse. Then, Charles was taken from Erik's care and placed on the stretcher. The side bars were snapped up with a clank on both sides.
Erik followed the herd from the lobby and through a set of swinging doors.
"What's his name?" one of the nurses asked.
"When did you find him?" asked another.
"Does he have a past history of seizures?"
"Is he allergic to anything?"
Further down the hall, the mind-numbing silence of the ER's lobby was replaced by a horrid drone of nurses and doctors shouting orders, and computers beeping and humming. Nurses and orderlies raced from room-to-room with supplies of surgical packets and blood bags. A repugnant smell of latex and sterilizing solution overpowered the place.
In front of Erik, the medical staff continued barking questions at him as they rushed into a private room. Across the walls dangled wires and enough electronic equipment to power a small city.
"Does he have any medical conditions?" one of the nurses asked.
Erik cleared the knot in his throat. "He's a paraplegic," he replied from the door.
Encircling Charles, the doctors shouted his name. A nurse brought out an IV bag. A heart monitor was strapped to his left arm.
"How long ago was he injured?" the same nurse asked.
"Six months."
The nurse darted away. She reached one of the doctors, tugged on his arm, and talked into his ear like she was divulging secrets.
The cluster of medical staff didn't slow. They hovered around Charles, examining his head and body like his heart would flat-line at any second. A nurse whipped out a pair of cutting shears and took them to Charles' pants.
Then, one of the other medical staff hustled Erik towards the hallway. The door swung open and then shut, and then Erik stood in the corridor, his eyes gaped at the dark hickory slab in front of him.
The door didn't open again.
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Dr. Napier's office was the generic type for any doctor. A stylish mahogany desk sat in its center, a cascade of family portraits conquering its edges; every earned certificate was paraded on the walls like the man was trying to over-compensate for something.
Seated in a chicken yellow wing-chair, Erik stared at the doctor as the other man skimmed through Charles' medical chart. It had only been two hours since Erik had brought him in, and somehow the file had gotten fat.
The doctor continued reading like Erik wasn't there; inside, Erik tried to ward off his frustration. The last time he'd been in a building full of humans, he and his mutants were infiltrating the CIA. With just a little concentration, he'd managed to defeat his opponents and obtain exactly what he desired. Those who dared oppose him were the ones that ended up dead.
Now, he was sitting across from a doctor who didn't even give him a passing glance.
After another minute, the doctor peeled his reading glasses from his face and finally peeked up. On his face, there was a cloak of disinterest that Erik didn't particularly like.
"First of all," the man spoke as he dumped his glasses to his desk, "I need to ask what your relationship is with the patient."
Erik considered, and then said, "He's my brother."
"All right, Mr. Xavier," the doctor went on, obviously assuming Erik and Charles shared the same last name, "here is what is happening right now. We are still performing tests on Charles, and while we have not found the cause of his current condition, we have suspicions of what it might be."
Erik raised a hand. "Just answer this—will he be all right?"
"It is common," the doctor continued as if Erik had said nothing, "for spinal cord injury victims to suffer from blood clots in their legs. This is due, of course, to their paralysis, and is especially dangerous within the first year. With hospital stays and rehabilitation, secondary conditions such as this can endanger their lives more so than the initial injury.
"Pulmonary embolisms are the most common of these," the doctor explained. "However, your brother is breathing on his own and we can find no evidence of a blood clot in his lungs. Therefore, we believe one has managed to travel all the way to his brain."
"A stroke?" Erik finished for him.
The doctor bobbed his head. "Yes, it would appear that way."
"But you have no proof of that."
"Like I said, we're performing tests on your brother as we speak. But his current symptoms all correlate with a stroke victim."
No, Erik thought. It's not as simple as that. It can't be.
Burying his head in his hands, Erik inhaled deeply. His heart ached, the blood feeling like it was carting shards of ice with it. His fingers were cold against his forehead.
"As of right now," the doctor continued. "Your brother is in a vegetative state. He is not responding to external stimuli; his pupils are not reacting to light. There is no change in his heart rate when presented with loud noises or any pain assessment exams—"
Erik waved his right hand for the doctor to quiet. After 'vegetative state,' all the words sounded like they were being spoken through a damaged speaker.
From the door, there came a knock. Erik didn't bother glancing up; he didn't even notice the heavy-set woman until she plopped down next to him.
"Excuse me," the woman spoke, her voice almost as deep as a man's. "My name is Vivian Rainer. I'm a social worker here at the hospital."
Erik rotated his head to the right.
The woman's expression was dreadfully harsh. "I need to ask you a few questions," she explained as she opened a notebook. There was a pen already glued to her hand. "Are you Charles' primary caregiver?"
A dark premonition hit Erik in the gut. "No."
The woman wrote something. "You have proof of that?"
"What's this about?"
"Just answer the questions, please."
"Not until you elaborate on their purpose."
With a huff, the woman lowered her pen. "All right," she spoke as if Erik had offended her. "Your brother has lesions across his body. There's scratches on the left side of his face that are at least a week old. A two-inch cut on his arm. There's bruising around his left wrist, and he appears severely malnourished. All these are signs of someone who has suffered domestic abuse."
She raised her eyebrows and her pen at the same time as if ready for Erik to confess something. With that, Erik dared a glimpse at the doctor; he, too, gazed onwards like Erik had blood on his hands. As he observed them both trying to stare him down, Erik realized that wasn't too far from the truth. In fact, it was the truth.
But none of that could be changed now. Erik already knew what he wanted to ask next. He just didn't want the answer.
Meeting the doctor's gaze, Erik said, "What will happen to him now?"
Dr. Napier's expression was as indifferent as the walls around him. But on his desk, his hands tightened a little. "Even if he wakes up, there is little chance your brother will ever fully recover from this type of trauma. I'm sorry."
End of Chapter