platitudes weren’t going to cut it, either. Shane had the uncanny ability to sense bullshit a mile away.
“The man just had a triple bypass. He’s doing the best he can under the circumstances.”
Shane digested those words, and as expected, called him out. “And what are you not saying, Mick?”
Michael closed the door, then dropped down behind the desk into the leather chair. “Sit,” he commanded.
Shane did. Unlike some of the others, Shane was fairly reasonable. Kane, Jake or Sean would have stubbornly crossed their arms and refused on principle alone, demanding he just lay it on the line.
Michael pulled open a drawer and extracted two glasses and a bottle of the Bushmills Single Malt he kept there, then poured them each a shot.
“That bad?” Shane asked, accepting the glass.
“It could be better.”
“I thought you just said the surgery went well.”
“It did. But there’s a lot more damage than we thought.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning... we dodged the bullet this time, but the gun’s still cocked and loaded.”
Shane swirled the whiskey in his glass, then tossed it back. Once again, Michael silently appreciated his ability to process bad news with thought and reason rather than brute force. “Does Dad know?”
“I don’t know. Jimmy Yim stepped up today and did us a favor, but he’s not familiar with Dad’s history beyond what I was able to tell him and what he was able to glean for himself.”
“But you think there’s more to it than that.”
Michael stared at his glass, his brow furrowed. When he spoke again, it was with carefully considered words. “I think it’s improbable that, given the damage we found, Dad wasn’t aware there was a problem.”
“So what are you saying? That Dad knew and didn’t do anything about it?”
“I’m not saying anything at this point,” Michael clarified. “But, if it was me...”
Whatever Michael was going to say was pre-empted by his vibrating pager. He checked the number, spewing a few choice swear words while shooting to his feet. “It’s Dad,” he said, running out of the room, Shane right on his heels. They ran to the stairwell and took the steps two and three at a time up the three flights to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.
The nurse on duty caught them right outside the unit, shoving a gown and mask into Michael’s hands. “His pressure bottomed out. Rhythm’s erratic. Pulse is practically non-existent.”
“Jimmy?”
“On his way.”
“Mick...” Shane’s eyes mirrored the same dread he felt. And once again, Michael couldn’t tell him what he wanted most to hear.
“I know.”
––––––––
F ifteen minutes later, Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Another bullet dodged. His father’s heart was beating steadily again and his vitals had evened out. Once again, the waiting room was filled.
Michael held up his hand when they all jumped to their feet. “He’s stable.”
“What the fuck, Mick?” Jake asked, looking as weary as the rest of them. “I thought we had this.” Thankfully, they were the only ones in the room.
“We’re adjusting the meds. It takes a while to regulate the anti-clogging agents, get them just right. Too much and he bleeds out at the insertion points, too little and he strokes out.”
“But he’s out of the woods, right?” Kieran prompted.
“For now. How did you all get here so fast?” Michael asked, removing his cap and sinking into one of the well-worn chairs.
Sean handed him a cup of coffee. Not the crap from the automatic drip machine in the far corner, but the good stuff. “We never left. We’ve been down in the cafeteria.”
Michael sipped the coffee and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I thought we agreed to take shifts.”
“We did, but no one wanted to leave. You stay, we all stay.”
Michael nodded. There was no sense arguing about it. “So. I guess we’re all hanging out here tonight?”
“I guess we are,” Kieran grinned. “Maggie’s got
“The man just had a triple bypass. He’s doing the best he can under the circumstances.”
Shane digested those words, and as expected, called him out. “And what are you not saying, Mick?”
Michael closed the door, then dropped down behind the desk into the leather chair. “Sit,” he commanded.
Shane did. Unlike some of the others, Shane was fairly reasonable. Kane, Jake or Sean would have stubbornly crossed their arms and refused on principle alone, demanding he just lay it on the line.
Michael pulled open a drawer and extracted two glasses and a bottle of the Bushmills Single Malt he kept there, then poured them each a shot.
“That bad?” Shane asked, accepting the glass.
“It could be better.”
“I thought you just said the surgery went well.”
“It did. But there’s a lot more damage than we thought.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning... we dodged the bullet this time, but the gun’s still cocked and loaded.”
Shane swirled the whiskey in his glass, then tossed it back. Once again, Michael silently appreciated his ability to process bad news with thought and reason rather than brute force. “Does Dad know?”
“I don’t know. Jimmy Yim stepped up today and did us a favor, but he’s not familiar with Dad’s history beyond what I was able to tell him and what he was able to glean for himself.”
“But you think there’s more to it than that.”
Michael stared at his glass, his brow furrowed. When he spoke again, it was with carefully considered words. “I think it’s improbable that, given the damage we found, Dad wasn’t aware there was a problem.”
“So what are you saying? That Dad knew and didn’t do anything about it?”
“I’m not saying anything at this point,” Michael clarified. “But, if it was me...”
Whatever Michael was going to say was pre-empted by his vibrating pager. He checked the number, spewing a few choice swear words while shooting to his feet. “It’s Dad,” he said, running out of the room, Shane right on his heels. They ran to the stairwell and took the steps two and three at a time up the three flights to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.
The nurse on duty caught them right outside the unit, shoving a gown and mask into Michael’s hands. “His pressure bottomed out. Rhythm’s erratic. Pulse is practically non-existent.”
“Jimmy?”
“On his way.”
“Mick...” Shane’s eyes mirrored the same dread he felt. And once again, Michael couldn’t tell him what he wanted most to hear.
“I know.”
––––––––
F ifteen minutes later, Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Another bullet dodged. His father’s heart was beating steadily again and his vitals had evened out. Once again, the waiting room was filled.
Michael held up his hand when they all jumped to their feet. “He’s stable.”
“What the fuck, Mick?” Jake asked, looking as weary as the rest of them. “I thought we had this.” Thankfully, they were the only ones in the room.
“We’re adjusting the meds. It takes a while to regulate the anti-clogging agents, get them just right. Too much and he bleeds out at the insertion points, too little and he strokes out.”
“But he’s out of the woods, right?” Kieran prompted.
“For now. How did you all get here so fast?” Michael asked, removing his cap and sinking into one of the well-worn chairs.
Sean handed him a cup of coffee. Not the crap from the automatic drip machine in the far corner, but the good stuff. “We never left. We’ve been down in the cafeteria.”
Michael sipped the coffee and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I thought we agreed to take shifts.”
“We did, but no one wanted to leave. You stay, we all stay.”
Michael nodded. There was no sense arguing about it. “So. I guess we’re all hanging out here tonight?”
“I guess we are,” Kieran grinned. “Maggie’s got
Similar Books
