Page 103 of Share with Me

Chapter Thirty-Three

Stitches went hereand there on Ivan’s forehead and cheeks. Where there were no stitches, Brinley saw swollen tissues and scrapes, as if the assailants had rubbed his face on the surface of the road. Bruises streaked his arms like broad brush strokes, blackish and reddish and looking painful, growing out of his hospital gown sleeves and down his arms. The bandages on his right arm were nothing compared to his left arm.

The full impact of what the doctor had told Yun earlier in front of Brinley hit her now as she stared at the cast on Ivan’s left wrist that extended all the way to his elbow. The doctor had said that Ivan’s wrist was broken in several places, muscles damaged, possibly tendons too.

The healing time? Months, possibly unknown. He’d still be feeling it more than a year from now.

His left wrist.

His livelihood.

Unless God worked a miracle, Ivan might never be able to play Paganini or Vivaldi ever again. What about his dreams of going back on the road, reviving his concert violinist career, or playing for ASO, or expanding his string studio?

From the hospital bed, Ivan’s eyelids fluttered open. “Brin?”

“Hi, handsome,” Brinley said.

Ivan chuckled then buckled. “Can’t… breathe.”

“Those ribs will heal,” Brinley said. “At least there’re no internal injuries.”

Ivan nodded.

“See, getting better already.” Brinley smiled.

Ivan reached up for her hand. Then he looked past her. “Grandma? Why… here?”

“To take you home, dear.” Yun walked steadily with her walker toward Ivan’s bed. “What else?”

Brinley thought Ivan’s eyes were on her.

Sure enough. “Grandma—oww—shouldn’t… here.”

“Brinley is not to blame.” Yun patted Ivan’s foot through the hospital sheet. “I insisted on coming. I’d only worry if I was sitting at home waiting for you. It’ll take more time to check you out of here than for us to drive home to St. Simon’s.”

“Ain’t that”—Ivan cringed again—“truth.”

“Shhh.” Brinley squeezed his right hand gently. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk.”

“Dr. d’Almeida said you’ll be fine in five or six weeks,” Yun said softly. She was holding on to the railings on the hospital bed.

“My… wrist. Elbow.” He breathed slowly. “Tendons… Doc said—”

“Hush, Ivan. Rest.” Brinley didn’t let his hand go.

Yun tucked the hospital sheet around Ivan’s legs. “Not to worry, dear. When we get home, Dr. Rao will take good care of you.”

“Six months”—he flinched—“or more.”

Brinley hushed him. “No more talking, okay? I’m glad you’re alive.”

Ivan nodded. “Art… okay? He… shot.”

“Didn’t I say stop talking?” Brinley laughed.

“Art?”

“If you must know, he’s in surgery. Should be out soon. No worries, okay?” Brinley rubbed Ivan’s hand. “We’ve prayed for him. He’s covered.”

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