doing their damnedest to hold it all together despite the fact that it was all falling apart.
Hospitals made Madigan nervous.
Souls were everywhere. Souls departing, souls arriving, all of them looking for new bodies. That’s what it felt like. It scared the crap out of him.
There was also a lot of drugs. Made him feel like a quit smoker in a cigar store.
One time he’d come to question a gunshot victim and the duty doctor took him aside and asked if he was okay.
“You don’t look so hot,” the doctor had said.
Madigan was taken aback, left without words for a moment. He wondered how many others could read what was really going on with him. “I always look like this,” Madigan said, and he tried to smile. He could hear the false bravado in his own voice.
“Then you’re probably in worse shape than you think. You anemic?”
“Nope.”
“Diabetic?”
“Nope.”
“You on medication?”
Madigan had glanced away, back again, turned his mouth downat the corners. “Take a painkiller every once in a while. That’s all . . .”
The doctor had smiled knowingly. “You think I don’t see you?” he’d said. “You think I can’t tell?”
“Tell what?”
“You are off somewhere, my friend. You are somewhere in the clouds. Look at your pupils; look at your skin tone. You think I don’t know? What the hell have you taken?”
Madigan hesitated for a moment. He felt transparent, hollow, like nothing. “Taken enough of your bullshit, for a start,” he replied, and walked away.
Only when he reached the door did he appreciate how much his hands were shaking.
This time one of the duty nurses was helpful, businesslike, no personal questions. He flashed his ID, asked after the gunshot girl, was directed to the Trauma Unit in back of Triage.
Madigan found a couple of uniforms. He recognized one of them.
“She doing?” Madigan asked.
“Nearly bled out. Slim at best. They say she’s fifty–fifty. Next few hours will tell.”
“She say anything?”
“Asked if she could get a BLT and a root beer, side order of fries.”
“The sarcasm we can do without,” Madigan said.
“Far as I know she hasn’t said a word. You want to go in and see her?”
“Sure.”
The uniform stepped aside and let Madigan pass.
In the bed she looked half the size she had at the house.
Tubes everywhere. Nose, mouth, stuff stuck in her arms, her legs.
Madigan stood there for a week. That’s what it felt like.
It crept up on him. The guilt. The conscience. It crept up on him with every passing second, every second that made him see how small she was, how pretty she was, how fragile and delicate and broken and impossibly damaged.
He saw her like she was his own, could have been, might have been.
He remembered Cassie at eight, nine years old. He saw Lucy, not so much younger than this one. He remembered holding herwhen she was newborn, and feeling that sense of power and duty and responsibility and fear. Fear that he would get it wrong, that he would do or say something that would irreparably damage her. He saw his own children, every one of them, and they were all in that bed, and they were surrounded by wires and tubes and humming machines, and it was all because of him . . .
There was a sound behind him and he turned.
“Was a through-and-through,” the nurse said. The nurse was black and pretty and she had cornrow hair, and when she smiled there was something deeply sympathetic in her expression, like she had enough patience to care for the whole fucked-up world.
“Missed most of her vitals, but punctured a lung and put a hole in her gut on the ricochet. Went out her back.”
“Odds?” Madigan asked.
“Odds are never great with the little ones. Big bullets and small bodies don’t play well together.”
“You her attending?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nancy. Nancy Lewis.”
Madigan gave her his card. “Keep me posted, huh? She wakes up, I need to talk to her.”
“We’re
Hospitals made Madigan nervous.
Souls were everywhere. Souls departing, souls arriving, all of them looking for new bodies. That’s what it felt like. It scared the crap out of him.
There was also a lot of drugs. Made him feel like a quit smoker in a cigar store.
One time he’d come to question a gunshot victim and the duty doctor took him aside and asked if he was okay.
“You don’t look so hot,” the doctor had said.
Madigan was taken aback, left without words for a moment. He wondered how many others could read what was really going on with him. “I always look like this,” Madigan said, and he tried to smile. He could hear the false bravado in his own voice.
“Then you’re probably in worse shape than you think. You anemic?”
“Nope.”
“Diabetic?”
“Nope.”
“You on medication?”
Madigan had glanced away, back again, turned his mouth downat the corners. “Take a painkiller every once in a while. That’s all . . .”
The doctor had smiled knowingly. “You think I don’t see you?” he’d said. “You think I can’t tell?”
“Tell what?”
“You are off somewhere, my friend. You are somewhere in the clouds. Look at your pupils; look at your skin tone. You think I don’t know? What the hell have you taken?”
Madigan hesitated for a moment. He felt transparent, hollow, like nothing. “Taken enough of your bullshit, for a start,” he replied, and walked away.
Only when he reached the door did he appreciate how much his hands were shaking.
This time one of the duty nurses was helpful, businesslike, no personal questions. He flashed his ID, asked after the gunshot girl, was directed to the Trauma Unit in back of Triage.
Madigan found a couple of uniforms. He recognized one of them.
“She doing?” Madigan asked.
“Nearly bled out. Slim at best. They say she’s fifty–fifty. Next few hours will tell.”
“She say anything?”
“Asked if she could get a BLT and a root beer, side order of fries.”
“The sarcasm we can do without,” Madigan said.
“Far as I know she hasn’t said a word. You want to go in and see her?”
“Sure.”
The uniform stepped aside and let Madigan pass.
In the bed she looked half the size she had at the house.
Tubes everywhere. Nose, mouth, stuff stuck in her arms, her legs.
Madigan stood there for a week. That’s what it felt like.
It crept up on him. The guilt. The conscience. It crept up on him with every passing second, every second that made him see how small she was, how pretty she was, how fragile and delicate and broken and impossibly damaged.
He saw her like she was his own, could have been, might have been.
He remembered Cassie at eight, nine years old. He saw Lucy, not so much younger than this one. He remembered holding herwhen she was newborn, and feeling that sense of power and duty and responsibility and fear. Fear that he would get it wrong, that he would do or say something that would irreparably damage her. He saw his own children, every one of them, and they were all in that bed, and they were surrounded by wires and tubes and humming machines, and it was all because of him . . .
There was a sound behind him and he turned.
“Was a through-and-through,” the nurse said. The nurse was black and pretty and she had cornrow hair, and when she smiled there was something deeply sympathetic in her expression, like she had enough patience to care for the whole fucked-up world.
“Missed most of her vitals, but punctured a lung and put a hole in her gut on the ricochet. Went out her back.”
“Odds?” Madigan asked.
“Odds are never great with the little ones. Big bullets and small bodies don’t play well together.”
“You her attending?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nancy. Nancy Lewis.”
Madigan gave her his card. “Keep me posted, huh? She wakes up, I need to talk to her.”
“We’re
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