Part Three
Ty distantly wondered where his mother was. She was supposed to be here. She was supposed to make everything all right. Yeah, right, a cynical part of his brain protested. When has she made everything alright? But she had, he argued, when he was little. She had nursed him through the chicken pox. When his grandmother died, she had been there. Yeah, and what has she done lately? The jaded part of him laughed. He felt like he was wrestling with death, and unless he could get some help, it would overpower him and steal 'Becca.
A doctor stepped into the room. He nodded to the police officer, and regarded Ty for an instant. The boy was pale, shaky, but undisputedly calm. "Your mother still isn't here? What about your father?"
"He's dead." Ty laughed, bitterly. "Just tell me what's wrong with her."
"I really have to tell her guardians -"
"And I'm family. Right now, I'm the only family she's got. I have every right to know if my little sister is going to die. Tell me." Ty said, demanding, pointed and blunt about the tragedy.
"Look, I really can't do that."
Ty's tone grew acidic, and abrasive. "Look at me." He looked deep into the doctor's eyes, making him look deep into his. " I saw her get," his voice dropped, low and he searched for a word. "Attacked, I rode with her to the hospital. I've been holding her hand for fourteen hours now." And every minute of it had seemed like a thousand minutes in purgatory. He was eating his sins. This was his fault. If he had been watching her more closely, nothing would have happened. "You can tell me what's wrong with her." What I did to her.
The doctor sighed. "In layman's terms, well. . . Your sister's great, considering. She was discovered quickly. We got her blood transfusions quickly. However, the trauma nonetheless affected her. She was without very much oxygen to the brain for at least twenty minutes. She is in a coma. From what we can tell she still has substantial brain activity. She's probably thinking of things right now. She might even be able to hear you. But she is trapped within herself."
"When is she going to get out?" Ty knew the answer, it was in the choked noise of her breathing.
"Anytime. Today, tomorrow, next year, never." The doctor's voice was not very optimistic, though he was trying to be.
"What is most likely?" Ty sighed. He could tell the doctor was softening the blow. She looked so still. She should be up, moving, living her life.
"I'm sorry, but I think that she won't wake up. She has a very weak pulse and weak respiratory signs. She is a very fragile child, and I don't know that she can revive."
"She could sleep forever. . ." Ty felt the rage welling in him. Helpless, futile rage. It was useless, there was nothing he could rage against. "Where's my mother?"
"I don't know, the police were trying to contact her. If you could tell me her name and number, I'll get the nurses to contact her."
"Okay, Cynthia Mather. The number's 466 - 9721."
The doctor wrote it down on his clipboard. "Okay, Ty, I'll send some nurses with blankets, maybe you can get some sleep. You look like you need it."
Ty looked at the prone figure beside him. "Sleep." He snorted. The universe is such a cruel, ironic place.