Page 22 of Until Waverly

“He goes back and forth between wanting to see his wife and son,” I stated, then panicked when the phone went to dead air. Did I lose her? Did the line get cut, or did we disconnect? “Detective St. James?” I hated the wobble in my voice. I cajoled myself by saying it was because of extreme exhaustion, but deep down, it was all fear.

“Yes. I’m here, Waverly. I’m sorry about that. Does he know the status of his son?” she probed.

“Only what our last update was. Has his condition changed?” I couldn’t keep the worry from my tone. If this man’s son passed away, I was almost sure whatever hold he had on reality would dissipate.

Rapidly.

We’d all pay the price for the death of his son. Tears welled up in my eyes. My nose burned. I blinked quickly, hoping to clear my vision. Instead, the wetness splashed against the back of my hand.

Get it together.

Amy had once told us there was no crying in nursing. At least not where patients and others could see us. Guess I brokethatrule.

“It has not. His son is doing as well as expected after the trauma he sustained. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be the difference maker. The hope is, if the boy can sustain himself as he currently is, he’ll make a complete recovery and have no lasting health issues from the accident,” Detective St. James said. “Obviously, neurology and pulmonary want to observe him as well.

“That’s good,” I say, unsure how to respond to that information.

“Last question, Waverly. We’ve gotten reports the father might have a gun. Have you seen evidence of one?”

My gaze flew to the father. For the millionth time since he’d said he had a gun, I allowed my gaze to linger on him. If he had a gun, he’d it hidden the piece extremely well. None of us had observed the firearm or saw it.

“He implied it with me. But none of us has seen the gun.”

“Good. Good. Thank you, Waverly. Now I need you to do me a big favor. From here on out, I am cautiously optimistic things will get better.”

“Umm, sure.”

“Can you give the phone to Chris?”

Chris?

I frowned. Who the hell was Chris? No one on the floor that I knew of had that name. And by now I’d introduced myself to every patient and family.

“I’m sorry, Detective St. James. Who is that?”

“The dad, Waverly. His name is Chris Stapleton. I’m going to go out on a limb and say no introductions have been made yet?”

“No, they hadn’t,” I stated before holding the phone out to Chris. “The call is for you.”

“I don’t want to fucking talk to anybody, bitch,” he yelled, “I just want to see my son or wife.” He slapped the phone in my hand.

I winced when it slammed into the countertop. That was going to hurt tomorrow too.

“Right. And the Detective on the phone might assist you with that. Because, as we’ve explained repeatedly, we can’t get you to either your son or your wife.” I exhaled a tense breath and shook out my shoulders. “Listen, Chris, talk to her or don’t talk to her, but we’re going to have issues if you put your hands on me again.”

I threw the phone on the Formica top in a fit of anger. For a second, I felt bad for Detective St. James. Rage coursed through me. I was mad at the father. Infuriated security brought him to the wrong floor. Pissed off I couldn’t hold my daughter. Was it too much to ask to wrap this bullshit up so I could hug Alandria, go home, eat dinner, and sleep?

“Asshole,” I mumble under my breath when he finally picked up the phone.

I was at the end of my patience with him and being lockdown.

Over it.

Done.

Amy placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and kept me from stomping off. “Easy now, Waverly.”

“I’m over this bullshit,” I hissed, keeping my voice low so Chris didn’t hear me. “I want to see my kid.”

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