Notes: written for the Contrelemontre No Dialog challenge.
Disclaimer: I don't live in a fictional Colorado town. I am not an imaginary piano prodigy, or a world famous surgeon. I don't control any similar characters, either.
***
Ephram could see them all, behind the glass of the family waiting room. Snippets of conversations that didn't register didn't really mean anything. He couldn't be a part of that, had no voice to give to inane speeches about Colin being good as new, how it was in God's hands now.
He knew it wasn't true. God's hands were all well and good, but they had little to do with the crisis at hand (heh) now. It was his father's hands they had to worry about.
Not that his father's hands were ever a problem. Ephram couldn't remember ever seeing them tremble, and knew that they would be sure and accurate even after hours of surgery. He'd watched them cutting a bagel that morning; driving to the hospital, perfectly positioned at ten and two. They'd carefully buttoned Delia's jacket, and touched the small of his back reassuringly before leaving him to head into the OR.
He wanted to be doing something. Pacing back and forth from the soda machine to the lukewarm soup dispenser -- if he ever had a craving for watery chicken broth that tasted like detergent, he knew where to get it - to the candy machine full of stale chocolate and tasteless Granola bars wasn't cutting it for him.
He counted the quarters he had left after buying Amy sodas, looking for states he hadn't seen. Not that he collected them, but Delia had one of those maps with the holes cut into them. He would be happy reading to her (not that she asked anymore), or doing homework; anything to stop himself from worrying what would happen to Colin. Would he wake up? Would he be himself if he did? Who was he, really?
Hours passed, and Ephram watched through the glass: Amy's animated hair flip, and Bright's angry knee jiggling. They all burned with useless energy. Colin's mother wrung her hands until even he could see the red streaks around her knuckles. His father mouthed what must have been bible passages, and wouldn't look up at his wife.
There were no words for what he was feeling; nothing sufficient to say to Colin when he woke up. If he woke up. He wanted to hold Colin's hand, be there when he rose through the layers of anesthesia. As far as everyone in the next room knew, though, that wasn't his place. His Colin was a stranger to them, a product of brain injury, a nick in a nerve. His Colin was a frustrated asshole who threw things at walls, and punched his best friend. His Colin apologized without saying sorry, and kissed him without asking - or needing - permission. His Colin was a secret, and perhaps a mistake. Ephram wondered which Colin would be revealed when his father came out to tell them everything was all right. He wondered whose recovery process would be longer.
Disclaimer: I don't live in a fictional Colorado town. I am not an imaginary piano prodigy, or a world famous surgeon. I don't control any similar characters, either.
***
Ephram could see them all, behind the glass of the family waiting room. Snippets of conversations that didn't register didn't really mean anything. He couldn't be a part of that, had no voice to give to inane speeches about Colin being good as new, how it was in God's hands now.
He knew it wasn't true. God's hands were all well and good, but they had little to do with the crisis at hand (heh) now. It was his father's hands they had to worry about.
Not that his father's hands were ever a problem. Ephram couldn't remember ever seeing them tremble, and knew that they would be sure and accurate even after hours of surgery. He'd watched them cutting a bagel that morning; driving to the hospital, perfectly positioned at ten and two. They'd carefully buttoned Delia's jacket, and touched the small of his back reassuringly before leaving him to head into the OR.
He wanted to be doing something. Pacing back and forth from the soda machine to the lukewarm soup dispenser -- if he ever had a craving for watery chicken broth that tasted like detergent, he knew where to get it - to the candy machine full of stale chocolate and tasteless Granola bars wasn't cutting it for him.
He counted the quarters he had left after buying Amy sodas, looking for states he hadn't seen. Not that he collected them, but Delia had one of those maps with the holes cut into them. He would be happy reading to her (not that she asked anymore), or doing homework; anything to stop himself from worrying what would happen to Colin. Would he wake up? Would he be himself if he did? Who was he, really?
Hours passed, and Ephram watched through the glass: Amy's animated hair flip, and Bright's angry knee jiggling. They all burned with useless energy. Colin's mother wrung her hands until even he could see the red streaks around her knuckles. His father mouthed what must have been bible passages, and wouldn't look up at his wife.
There were no words for what he was feeling; nothing sufficient to say to Colin when he woke up. If he woke up. He wanted to hold Colin's hand, be there when he rose through the layers of anesthesia. As far as everyone in the next room knew, though, that wasn't his place. His Colin was a stranger to them, a product of brain injury, a nick in a nerve. His Colin was a frustrated asshole who threw things at walls, and punched his best friend. His Colin apologized without saying sorry, and kissed him without asking - or needing - permission. His Colin was a secret, and perhaps a mistake. Ephram wondered which Colin would be revealed when his father came out to tell them everything was all right. He wondered whose recovery process would be longer.