Surface by Stacy Robinson

the hospital, in a coma, and to get home right away. There would be time enough later to explain the awful chain of events. Time she needed to think. But Michael had naturally wanted more, and his voice, so far-off and garbled at times, conveyed as much alarm as she imagined her own did.
    “Tell me what happened,” he’d said. “What the hell’s going on there?”
    Claire could hear horns honking and shouting in the background, and she felt her anxiety balloon in her chest. “Andrew Bricker came to the house. He had some papers for you.” She said the words cautiously.
    “What do I care about that right now, Claire? What happened?”
    “He had cocaine with him. He must have dropped it, and . . .”
    “What?”
    “And Nicholas found it.” She broke into sobs.
    “What are you saying?”
    Claire lowered the phone to her chest for a second and took a deep breath against the anger in her husband’s voice. “Michael, they might have to do surgery. Please just get here as fast as you can.”
    “He overdosed?”
    “It caused a brain hemorrhage.”
    “Christ.” There was a muffled silence before he spoke again. “Can they wait on the surgery?”
    “For the time being. But I don’t know for how long. They need to do more tests.”
    “Who’s taking care of him there?”
    “Dr. Sheldon, the neurologist. He seems excellent. And I’m waiting to see the head of neurosurgery.”
    “I don’t know who they are, but I’m calling Bruce Hoffman. I want him to make sure they bring in the best people. I won’t get there until late afternoon, and I want him overseeing this. If anything happens, you talk to Bruce.”
    She ran to the bathroom to throw up before returning to Nick’s bedside.
     
    With the new shift coming on and sunlight stretching into the corridors, Claire knew she couldn’t hold things together much longer on her own, and called her big sister, Jackie—the only person she could tell the horrible truth to and still count on for comfort. She was her best friend, her trusted if often blunt confidante, her adviser on all things parental. As a preschool teacher, Jackie had the patience of Job and the energy of a Zumba instructor, with an iridescent style to match. To see the two women from a distance—a seemingly odd couple pairing of pressed monochromatic elegance and colorful hippie-chick spontaneity, one would never guess they’d been raised under the same roof. But beyond the Burberry and batik prints, under the sophistication and practicality, they were compassionate mothers who shared a profound desire to get it right with their children. And for the most part they had managed to raise three thoughtful, creative cousins—Allie (eighteen, an eager epicurean bound for culinary school), Miranda (fifteen, still shy but devoted to volleyball and piano) and Nicholas (sandwiched between, and their go-to consultant on all things in guy world). Three seemingly levelheaded kids who respected their mothers and aunts, and who actually seemed to enjoy family gatherings.
    As Claire anxiously waited for her sister, she hoped against hope that they all would be together again for their annual Fourth of July barbeque bash on Martha’s Vineyard. And when Jackie arrived in the otherwise empty visitor’s lounge, her dark brown curls still damp from the shower, her bare face suntanned and freckled, she wrapped Claire in a secure embrace. Claire lay her head in the crook of her neck, feeling her body settle into Jackie’s warmth and imagining what it would be like to fall asleep there, safe and not having to say anything.
    “I’m here, honey,” Jackie repeated, the tiny crystals on her blouse tinkling as Claire’s body shook.
    Claire rubbed at the outline of a folded-up paper towel square in her pocket and blinked tears from her eyes. She had used the towel hours before to wipe a crusty splotch of Nick’s blood from her cheek while waiting for the doctor. She removed the secret totem from her pants. The white