Page 31 of Beneath the Indigo Sky

Mr. Johnson’s face softens slightly, but he’s cut off before he can reply as the town’s surgeon pulls back the curtain and joins us. Normally, a town this size wouldn’t have a surgeon. They’d be lucky to have a family practice doctor and a semi-stocked urgent care, but we’re fortunate. Dr. Susan Robinson had a glamorous and successful surgical career in LA before she decided she’d had enough of city life at fifty-five and moved here in semiretirement. She doesn’t work rounds or even take regular patients. If someone needs to schedule a surgical procedure, they typically need to travel to Anchorage. She is, however, an outstanding surgeon who loves being able to keep one foot in the game on her own terms, and on the few occasions a year we need some type of emergency surgical intervention that doesn’t require an entire intensive care team or larger facility, she’s happy to step in.

She’s carrying several films, so she must have been close enough to the hospital when Mr. Johnson arrived that she was already able to take imaging scans before I got here. She glances my way and offers a brief nod in greeting before addressing Mr. Johnson.

"Well, you did quite a number on yourself. A man your age, I’ve no idea how you managed to shatter your humerus before one of your joints blew out, but that’s what you’ve done. It’s a clean three-piece break, though, and it will be easy enough to set with a few plates and pins. Lucky for you, it’s something I can do in town, and I don’t have afternoon plans, so what do you say we head back, take care of it now, and you’ll be on the mend by dinnertime?”

It's not really a question. She’s the kind of person who sets the game plan, not the kind who follows someone else’s.

“Sure, Doc, whatever you say.” Mr. Johnson nods.

“Great. I’ll go get prepped, and they’ll come get you in about fifteen.” She turns back the way she came with a quick nod.

“Hey, Doc?” Mr. Johnson’s voice stops her, but she only turns her head and raises an eyebrow in question.

“Jayce here isn’t my emergency contact, but he’s going to be the one waiting for me today. Can you keep him informed? Namid isn’t…well, he’s not available, but he’s worried sick, and Jayce will call him for me.”

She nods briefly and continues out of the room.

“Thanks, Doc.” Mr. Johnson’s voice follows her as she closes the curtain on her way out.

We don’t have the fifteen minutes that Dr. Robinson says we do, and things move quickly from the moment she leaves the room. I’ve barely taken two steps closer to Mr. Johnson’s bedside to continue our conversation when the two nurses on call join us to wheel him back to the surgical suite. They distractedly state that the repairs will most likely take three to four hours and direct me back out through reception and down the left wing of the small hospital to the surgical center’s waiting room before letting me know that someone will be out with an update for me in two or three hours.

Namid

I am so useless.

Ken has always said that the way I feel is a gift, but it’s not a gift. It’s not a gift when it means that the only person in the world who has ever felt like my family is in the hospital hurting, and I’m not able to be with him because I’d be overwhelmed and useless.

I’ve never felt panic like that before. The moment Ken fell down the steps, the world started to move in slow motion, and as I watched the cabinet fall onto his arm, there was nothing I could do to stop it. There was nothing I could do to fix it as he lay there in pain. Nothing I can do now.

Somehow, even worse than feeling useless is the way I feel like a burden. Ken is the one who was hurt, but the whole time he’d been worried about me. I’d sat there holding his hand, trying to ignore the waves of pain that rushed through us both, and he’d tried to laugh, tried to minimize what he was feeling even though he knew I could feel the truth. When they’d loaded him into the ambulance, he wasn’t worried about whether his arm would heal or how much he hurt, or even whether he’d survive. Instead, he was telling me that it was okay that I couldn’t come with him. He couldn’t even focus on himself because he felt like he had to take care of me.

I’m thankful that Jayce was with us. I’m thankful that he called 911 and brought me to his house and agreed to go to the hospital to be with Ken. He took care of me just like Ken did, and he didn’t even bat an eye. I’m grateful that Jayce accepted me into his life so easily and that he’s become my friend. Even though I’m overwhelmed and scared and worried beyond reason, logically, I know today could have been so much worse. This could have been the day I lost both my father and my only friend. When I’d sat Jayce down and told him about myself, I fully expected him to mock me and leave. He didn’t. I don’t know if he believed me or even really understood what I was telling him. It’s not like I’d picked the most opportune time to try to explain, but he hadn’t left. He’d been confused, but he’d reached out and taken my hand without fear and told me that it was okay. That I was okay. He’d told me that he accepted me whether or not he understood. He’d settled his fingers on my arm, and they’d burned my skin even through my shirt. I’d wanted to pull him into my arms and feel his body crushed against mine. I’d wanted the scent of oil and leather and cinnamon to overwhelm me.

He’d asked questions, genuine and insightful questions, about how close to the hospital I thought I could get. He asked as if he believed me. He’d let me take his hand, and he’d offered to be with Ken in my stead, and he’d hugged me tightly. He’d brought me here, to his house, and he’d gone to the hospital with the promise he’d call as soon as he knew anything. He’d been everything.

It’s been nearly forty-five minutes, and he hasn’t called. I could call him, I suppose, but I don’t want to bother him if he’s with Ken or a doctor. What if it’s bad news, and he is trying to work up the nerve to call me? I don’t really want to find out even a few minutes earlier than I need to if that’s the case. Ken’s arm looked bad. There was bone sticking out of his skin. Still, it was only an arm, right? It’s not like the cabinet landed on his chest. He’ll be okay. He has to be okay. As long as he’s okay, we can find a way to deal with anything else. If his arm never works the same way, then I’ll just help him out even more than I already do. He’s the only family I know, and I’ll do anything for him. He just has to be okay.

I’ve been pacing around Jayce’s front room for half an hour, clutching my phone like it’s a lifeline, willing it to ring, but with my adrenaline finally starting to dip as I wait, I take in my surroundings for the first time. I’ve never been inside Jayce’s house before.

I’m not sure what I expected. The shop is almost sterile with its pure white walls and cheap utilitarian chairs. The single family portrait that still sits on Jordyn’s desk is the only personal item in the whole building. I guess I’ve always thought that was a deliberate choice, but now, wandering around Jayce’s home, I wonder if it’s because he’s so private rather than because he harbors an all-consuming love for minimalist decor.

His house is…cozy. There are shelves that hold pictures of Jayce and Jordyn and their parents. There are a few baseballs, a couple of vases, rows of stacked books, and one random stick that I’m sure has an interesting story behind it. Vines hang from macramé suspended pots in front of the large east-facing window, and a tall palm tree takes up an entire corner. There are paintings on the walls, landscapes. Two large oceanscapes that almost appear photographic with their attention to detail, and one of sunlight streamlining through a dense copse of pines onto the forest floor. A pair of leather boots and a set of sneakers are lined up neatly on a small rug next to the front door. There are a handful of dishes in the sink, old Christmas cards on the fridge, and a laundry basket full of clean towels waiting to be folded on the kitchen table. It feels lived in. It feels like a home, and I find myself wondering what it would be like to spend time here with Jayce, to curl up on the couch with a book and his arm draped over my shoulder or his head resting in my lap while my fingers play with his hair.

Almost without thought, I find my fingers trailing along the edges of picture frames and the old dry leather of the baseballs, tenderly touching his things in the way I know I’ll never get to touch him. Some of the leaves on the palm tree are dusty, and I wet a paper towel in the sink and carefully wipe them down. I’m useless at the things that matter most to me in this moment; I can’t sit in the hospital at Ken’s side, and I can’t take care of him, but Jayce has become my friend, my best friend, and he’s there for Ken in my place. Cleaning up a bit is the least I can do for him in return.

I fold the towels in the laundry basket and clean the dishes that have been left in the sink, and I wait for my phone to ring.

Chapter 9

Jayce

Namid answers my video call on the first ring. The way he sinks into my sofa, his blue eyes glistening as tears trace their way down his pale skin, makes me long to be there with him. I know he told me that he can feel other people’s emotions, and I find myself wondering how overwhelming that must be because, in this moment, the intensity of what he’s experiencing is palpable even through the phone. I can’t help but smile as he thanks me again and again for being there for Ken. It’s clear that he’s never had anyone else he can turn to, and I’m grateful that he’s allowing me the opportunity to show him that I can support him in the same way he’s supported me. I let him know what Dr. Robinson said, that it should be a relatively easy break to repair, and show him that I’m already in the waiting room. He sinks back into the pillows on my couch, and I can’t help thinking that even though I’m not at home, it’s nice having him there.

He keeps me on the phone for more than an hour, but eventually, his voice begins to slur, and he slowly drops off to sleep. I watch him for a moment before hanging up and leaning my head back against the wall to close my eyes as well.

Mr. Johnson is already awake in the recovery room when Dr. Robinson comes out to get me. As she leads me through the sterile halls, she tells me that everything has gone well. He’ll need to stay in the hospital for a couple of days, and then he’ll have a couple of months of recovery and physical therapy ahead of him, but he should be out of the sling and can even attempt things like driving in six to eight weeks. He’s lucked out that it’s his left arm he’s broken, and Dr. Robinson lets me know that as soon as the pain stops in a week or so, he’ll be able to adapt to doing most regular things on his own with one hand quite quickly.

“How’s Namid?” Ken’s voice is scratchy, and he sounds groggy, but once again, his first concern isn’t for himself.

---