Bruises

So far, Miranda is raising the son of her ex-lover, Dougie. She got temporary custody of the boy when Dougie disappeared. Now she thinks that Dougie has returned to take him away.

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The nurse will only let immediate family in to see Dougie. He has a concussion, some bleeding on the brain, which according to the shift doctor, could be bad or could be nothing. His pupils react to light, and that shows brain function.

"This place gives me the willies," I mutter as Mitch and I go to the little waiting area at the end of the hall. "I hate hospitals."

Mitch reaches over and pats my knee. "No one likes hospitals, but thank the good Lord for them."

"I know. They just smell funny and people die."

"They get well, too," he says. "This hospital saved your life. I'll always be grateful for this place."

I smile. "I wasn't dying, Mitch. I got clonked in the face by a lunatic."

Mitch nods. "I know, I know. Just seeing you here, unconscious and all battered and bruised. Not something I ever want to see again, I can tell you that."

I look past him down the hall to see Waylon coming towards us. He looks like a little boy. His eyes are wide and he's pale.

"Waylon, you okay? How's your daddy?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets and he struggles to keep it together. "He's hurt pretty bad. He woke up for a minute, and he asked for you."

I glance at Mitch. "Should I go in there?"

Mitch shrugged. "I guess. He asked for you after all." There is a coolness in his voice that I can't miss. I'll have to remember to ask him about it later. I'm hoping it isn't petty jealousy. "Do you want to come with me? In case he says something."

Mitch looks from me to Waylon then back again. "I'm in uniform. That's probably not a good idea."

I take Waylon's hand and walk back to Dougie's room with him.

Dougie's head is wrapped with white gauze and he has various wires and tubes attached to him. There is no color in his face.

"Dad?" Waylon whispers as he leans in close to his dad. "I'm here, Miranda's here, too."

Dougie stirs but doesn't open his eyes. After about five minutes, the nurse comes in to tell us that visiting hours are over.

Mitch stands up as we enter the waiting area. "Well?"

I shake my head. "They probably gave him something for the pain. He didn't wake up. I think we should go home, and in the morning I can bring you back here to sit with your dad. He's gonna need you," I say, turning to look at Waylon.

"What about school?" Waylon asks. "If I miss too much time, Tomlin will fail me."

I swallow the lump in my throat. Neither Mitch nor I had told him any details about why his dad was in the hospital. Just that he was hurt.

"We're not gonna worry about school right now. I'll call your principal first thing in the morning."

I put my arm around Waylon's shoulder as we walk to the elevators. "Miranda, what's going to happen to him if the brain bleeding doesn't stop?"

"Listen to me, Waylon. If he was that bad off, they would have flown him to Norfolk or Greenville. Stop thinking about things that might not happen. He's in good hands. I'll bet tomorrow, he's gonna be asking for a beer and pinching the nurses."

At last, I see a tiny smile on Waylon's face.

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I take a hot shower, and call Rita to tell her what happened. I promise that I'll be at work tomorrow but I might be late. She peppers me with questions, but I can't tell her anything. Mitch shouldn't have told me, but he knew I wouldn't come with him unless he did. All I could say was Dougie got hurt and there was head trauma. I should call Momma, but I know I'd spill the beans if she started to ask me a bunch of questions. Plus, I know she wouldn't sleep tonight if I told her anything. I'm hoping she'll agree to sit with Waylon at the hospital some tomorrow when I have to go into work.

I pick up my journal and flip to the next blank page.

"How can you live with someone for three years and hear that they have been accused of a crime. Not just a stupid crime, but a heinous crime. A hate crime is what it will be dubbed in the papers. A gay teacher beaten to death with a hammer by a white homophobic redneck. It wouldn't matter to Dougie. He would just be excited to be mentioned in the paper, He could weasel out of anything. But Waylon would be devastated. All of the fall out would land right on poor Waylon.

"Do I think Dougie is capable of this? No, not in a million years. He doesn't invest his feelings in things like that. As far as I know, Dougie doesn't invest his feelings in anything or anyone."

I stop and tap the pen on the paper. I've got to figure out what happened. I know Mitch is a good cop, but he doesn't think like I do. He's too logical. The world isn't just facts and logic. There are a lot of what if's. I'm a "what if" girl.

What if Dougie did stop Tomlin? Why would he do it? Dougie had laughed when he admitted he had instigated the vandalism. Why go to this extreme? What if Dougie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if Tomlin was caught with someone, doing something he shouldn't be doing, and Dougie stumbled on that? That would mean there was someone else there, but who?

I slide the journal back into the drawer and turn off the lights. I say a prayer for Dougie, Waylon and for Dennis Tomlin. Before long, I drift into a fitful sleep filled with dark nightmares of long hallways where dead, milky eyed Ed Preston stands, keeping me trapped in a world where I don't belong.