Zipper Fall (21 page)

B
RIGHT
light woke me up. It was right in my eyes, its white luminosity burning straight through my closed eyelids. The air had an odd smell. My hands felt cold and my forehead burned, and I tried to turn over and escape that awful brightness, but I couldn’t. I was stuck, lying on my back, and my parched tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.

“I’m almost done here, Mr. Gaudens,” a calm voice said, all business. It was a man’s voice.

“Dr. Hinge, what was the duration of the patient’s anesthesia?”

I heard a familiar voice give a reply, and I felt a profound sense of disorientation wash over me.

Why was Paul here?

Where was Jack?

Had Jack been just a dream?

I tried to call Paul’s name, but no sound left my dry lips. They discussed my dosage and how much I weighed and how the same dosage would have affected a female of equivalent mass; I felt cool hands touch me, taking my blood pressure and reporting the numbers.

“Stay with the patient until he is fully conscious, Dr. Hinge.”

“Yes, Dr. Brungo.” Then there was the sound of receding footsteps, and that awful, bright light was clicked off.

“Open your eyes, Gaudens. I know you can.”

I did. “….”

An electrical motor whirred as my bed moved to a slightly inclined position. Cool, gentle hands lifted a cup of water to my parched lips, and I drank, grateful for its soothing comfort.

“You’ll feel like your mouth is cotton-dry and you’ll be thirsty until tomorrow. It’s a common side effect of general anesthesia.” Paul looked like he almost always had, composed and calm. He wore a white coat and a nametag; a stethoscope was draped around his neck.

“Paul….” My croak was barely audible.

I felt my hand on his and I squeezed it lightly; the man that had once been the love of my life was, inexplicably, by my side. “Thank you,” I said. “What happened?”

“A guy brought you in with a gunshot wound in your butt and significant blood loss. The slug lodged in your pelvis, but it didn’t crack the bone. I had the pleasure of removing it personally.”

“You’re a doctor already?” My voice sounded faint to me, my head still fuzzy, my mind not quite absorbing what was going on around me.

“No, they just call us that. I’m just a lowly med school intern, but I get to learn on people like you. You’ll be as good as new. You got a transfusion, and we did some diagnostics to check your organs for internal bleeding. We’ll send you home pretty soon with some painkillers. You’ll want to take it easy, okay?”

I nodded, feeling the medical details slip past me as I was trying to level with the fact that Paul was here. With me, touching my hand. My mind wandered even further; did I still love him, or not? My chest was cosseted in a warm, slightly fuzzy feeling when I looked at him.

One hundred percent.

“The guy who brought me in—what did he look like?” The sound of my own voice startled me.

“He’s downstairs, waiting. They wouldn’t let him in because he’s not related. Tall, brown hair, irate, doesn’t look like a punk.” Paul looked at me, questions in his bespectacled, intelligent eyes.

“Yeah. I’d like to see him.”

“Okay, then.” He took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

Not five minutes later, the door burst open, its frame filled by one Jack Azurri. He looked awful. His hair was wild, his eyes were feral, and his jeans and button-down shirt were covered in dried blood.

“Where is he?” His voice was a rasp of pain, and I shuddered with guilt. I knew he’d been angry with me before, but now—

“Mr. Azurri… Mr. Gaudens just regained consciousness. He may not be entirely lucid yet.”

“I can talk—I’m here.” To my own ears, my voice still sounded as though it was coming from a metal watering can. “Paul. More water, please.” I rasped.

I heard him pour some from the pitcher. He propped my head up with the slender hands I used to know so well and helped me drink. The thirst just would not abate. It was driving me crazy. I drained the cup and thanked him. Then I met Jack’s eyes.

“Jack. Allow me to introduce Dr. Paul Hinge, my former lover and a very good friend.” Jack blanched, rooted to the ground. “Paul. Allow me to introduce Mr. Jack Azurri… my boyfriend.” I forced a faint smile, lifting my gaze to Jack’s distressed face. “Jack….”

I reached my arm out to him, much like it had the night before, searching for his hand, or his face, or for at least a sign of anything he was willing to give.

Or forgive.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Azurri,” Paul said, nodding curtly. “I’m glad Wyatt has someone by his side.” I saw Paul look at Jack and through him, taking his measure. He pushed his glasses up his nose in a habitual gesture. “If you need anything, press the call button and the nurse will come. Oh. And now that you’re up, the police will want to talk to you. We’re obliged to report gunshot injuries.” He gave me a faint smile; it was but a little curve of his narrow lips, but it went all the way up to his dark, penetrating eyes. “Later, Gaudens.”

Gaudens.

“Gaudens?” Jack echoed my thoughts, coming closer. Gingerly, he sat on the side of my bed and his hands touched mine. They felt different from Paul’s. Warmer. The life signs monitor behind me started to beep a little faster.

“I returned that thing, Jack. As you asked me to.”

His ashen face showed some pain at that, and the pain was soon followed by a wave of guilt. “Wyatt.” He paused, gathering the right words. “I’m so sorry, Wyatt. I should have never… I should have just made another drink for you.” He leaned in, letting our foreheads touch as he slid his hand up to my shoulders. He leaned in and buried his face in the tangled mess of blond hair that covered my neck. “I didn’t think you were actually going to go there,” he whispered. “Are you nuts? Had I only known…. I thought you were going to mail it or something….”

“It didn’t even occur to me to mail it. I just… I wanted to fix it. Right away. That’s all.” The thought of Jack walking out of my life assaulted me unbidden, a low and dastardly ambush of my subconscious mind. My eyes began to itch, my nose began to twitch, and I got that awful feeling like I was going to cry. I hadn’t cried since that huge blowout with my dad years ago, and I took considerable pride in having armored my heart with such ruthless efficiency. Before that, the last time I cried was in third grade when a classmate mentioned my mom and she wasn’t alive anymore.

I didn’t do tears well; in fact, I tended to channel emotions into violence and other antisocial acts.

This is all Jack’s fault.

He’s a pain in the ass.

Pompous prick.

Doesn’t have a clue.

No tears allowed!

“Wyatt….” He straightened up to take a closer look at me.

I sucked it up, balled up my fist, and punched him straight in the jaw. It was a weak, lousy punch from my semireclined position. He just looked at me, straight in the eyes, and then he reached out and hugged me to his chest. My change of position made my posterior wound throb, but being in Jack’s embrace like that was worth it, so I didn’t say anything.

“I’m so glad you’ll be okay, Wyatt. So glad. I’m so sorry.”

That did it. Big, fat tears started to roll down my cheeks, and I hid my face in his bloodstained shirt.

“You can punch me again if it will help,” he whispered, his hand rubbing small circles on my back.

S
OON
after that, I went to sleep knowing Jack had gone to his place to take a shower and change, and he was going to stop by in the morning. Trying to sleep in a hospital is generally a miserable experience. After I managed to tune out all those orderlies and nurses walking about and pushing their carts, and after I learned to ignore the ringing of phones from the nurses’ station and the beeping of monitors, I finally fell asleep. Then somebody came in and turned the light on so they could take my pulse and measure my blood pressure and temperature, and then I had to work hard to fall asleep all over again. When I saw the skies lighten outside the large, hospital window, I was finally tired enough to get two hours of shut-eye before the doctors started on their morning rounds.

M
Y
EYES
stayed glued shut with the rest I craved; the doctors came and went. The orderly brought a breakfast tray and I cussed him out and told him to turn the lights off and close the door, and I went to sleep again.

I felt fingers stroke the hair on my head; a large, warm hand grasped mine. That sure wasn’t a doctor or an orderly. My chest swelled with emotion. “Jack,” I whispered, incredulous and giddy with happiness. “You’re back, Loverboy.”

“Wyatt.” The hand didn’t stop stroking my hair, but his voice—

That voice.

My eyes popped open. Familiar rusty hair was shot with more white than before, and there was stubble on his chin. The wrinkles on his forehead were deeper than I remembered.

“Wyatt. My son.”

I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn’t. It was as though the words dribbled out my ear, bypassing my vocal chords. I was lying there on a flimsy hospital pillow with my father sitting next to me, holding my hand and stroking my hair. Aside from running into him by accident at the mall or post office, the last time I saw him we were yelling at one another all the way to my car, parked by the sidewalk, as I loaded up my things, spreading my wings to leave my nest permanently. I was to choose between Paul, the son of the doctor who somehow failed to keep my mother alive, and the rest of my family. Giving me an ultimatum was a sure way to push me in the other direction. That was then, though, and this was now. Dad showed up. Even after swearing his shadow would never darken my doorstep, here he was.

“Dad.” I felt a small, uncertain smile tug on the corners of my mouth.

“Your brother Carl called. He got a call from the man who brought you in. He said he got his number from your cell phone.”

I didn’t yank my hand back. I didn’t tell him to get out of my hair. “You came.” My voice was fuzzy with sleep.

“Of course I came, Wyatt. You’re my boy.” There was pain in his voice, and longing.

There was pain in my voice as well. “Dad….”

Being a dysfunctional child of a dysfunctional parent, I’d always sworn I’d be different from my dad. I’d never be wild and emotional like he was. I wouldn’t embarrass my kids—heck, I wouldn’t even have any. Now we were in this small room together, and he had those awful, emotional tears in his eyes.

I looked away. I didn’t want him to see the wetness on my lashes. I could feel the ball of my other hand form into a fist as I struggled to hold it all in.

“You aren’t going to slug me, are you? You used to do that when you didn’t want to cry.”

His words just about finished me off. “I still do that,” I sniffled.

He squeezed my hand and let out an uncertain laugh. “Well, you got your temper from me, I suppose.”

I turned to face him, tears and all. Our eyes met, and we grinned our maniacal grins at one another. That’s when I realized we were almost entirely alike.

T
HE
nurse came in, asking if I’d accept a visitor. I nodded, and Jack entered the room. He looked a lot better than he had several hours earlier; showered and shaved, he exuded power and sex appeal in his dark navy suit and a white dress shirt. His gray and cerulean tie brought out his eyes.

I pressed the switch on the side of my bed so I could sit up some.

“Hey, Wyatt,” he said, coming to my side, across the bed from my father. He looked like he wanted to bend down, but stopped himself at the last moment. I wanted him to bend down so I could kiss him, but my dad was there, observing us, his gaze overcast with dark speculation.

“Jack. This is my father, Dr. Hector Gaudens. Dad, this is Mr. Jack Azurri, my… client.”

They rose and shook hands over me; it made me feel like I was spread out on a sacrificial altar.

“I understand it was you who brought Wyatt in last night,” my father said. “Thank you. And thank you for contacting the family. Carl and DeeDee will visit him later.”

Jack sat down on the doctor’s stool next to me and eyed my untouched breakfast tray. “You haven’t eaten. Dr. Hinge informed me specifically that you get really whiny when you’re sick and won’t eat or drink enough. You’re supposed to keep yourself hydrated, at the very least.” He picked up my cup of orange juice and held it out for me. He didn’t embarrass me by trying to press it to my lips in front of my father, for which he earned some unintended brownie points.

“Which Dr. Hinge?” my father asked.

“Paul Hinge,” Jack replied, his voice not weighed down by years of difficult family history.

“Is that so….” My father’s voice was quiet as he looked away, avoiding my eyes as though he was burned.

Yes, Father. Paul. Son of Richard. Live with it.

I accepted a cup and sipped some juice, and before I knew it, it was gone.

“Still thirsty?” Jack asked. I nodded; he topped my glass off from the water pitcher.

“You are Wyatt’s client?” my father asked, his voice suspicious. “What kind of services does my son perform for you?”

“He manages an advertising campaign for a company I work for,” Jack replied with casual ease. “Speaking of which, the rest of the management team wanted to meet with you next week and discuss some of the salient points you’ve raised. I’ll schedule you later in the week and drive you in—but let me know if you don’t feel up to it, alright?”

I nodded.

“Oh, and I need your invoice so you can get paid.”

My eyes bugged out. “But I thought—”

“Nonsense,” Jack said. “I appreciate your generosity, but this project is too big for you to do just for client referrals. Keep track of your hours, Gaudens.”

I wanted to kiss him.

Except my father was there, discomfort rolling off him in waves. I don’t know how he knew, but I was pretty sure he could tell Jack and I didn’t just work together.