Hidden Scars by InitialLuv
Chapter Four
MICKEY
Eleven at night isn't exactly late in Atlantic City, but the emergency area of the hospital isn't as busy as I expected. Then I realize it's Tuesday – after the distressing long weekend and then this horrific homecoming, I had momentarily lost track of the date.
Donna goes straight to the nurses' desk, and she barely has to take in a breath to speak before an older nurse comes around the back of the desk to take Donna's arms, still holding Mark, and she directs them both to a hallway that I assume must lead to examination rooms. Donna takes one look over her shoulder toward me, her eyes wide and scared and impossibly young. Then the trio is out of my sight.
I stand at the desk, momentarily staring at the entrance to the hallway. Then I turn toward the door that leads to the parking lot.
"Sir? Sir!"
A different, younger nurse at the desk is calling me, her tone firm. I pause, closing my eyes in resignation before I turn back. "Yeah?"
"The boy – your son? – I need you to give me your information." Now that I've turned back, her voice seems to hold more concern than authority. Her eyes track up and down as she looks at me, and I realize I must be a sight; even before they were stained with Mark's blood, my clothes had been rumpled and dirty. My shirttails are hanging out of my slacks, and I self-consciously try to push them back in place.
"Uh – his mother. She's with him. She can tell you. . . I don't have – I don't think – "
I'm backing up now, still thinking of escape, of how far I can get and how fast, but this young woman in the starched white uniform is now coming around the desk toward me. Why can't these nurses stay where they belong? I think, and give an involuntary laugh. It comes out sounding choked and painful.
"Why don't you sit down?" she says, not unkindly, but I notice that she moves around behind me, as if to block off my escape route. I'm ushered into a chair, and she sits beside me, reaching for a clipboard that another nurse hands her.
I look at the forms on the clipboard with trepidation. What do they want from me? What do they expect me to tell them? What do they expect me to know? Mark was born in this hospital but I wasn't there, not until he was about five hours old. He's rarely been sick that I'm aware of – he's definitely never been injured like this before. And when I give them his name, and my name – how do I explain that? I have a sudden urge for a cigarette, but they were unfortunately in my jacket, left back in the apartment. It's just by luck that my wallet was in my pants when we left, I certainly hadn't thought about needing it. When we made our hasty exit, I had grabbed my keys and called it good.
I realize the nurse has asked me a question that I never heard. Obviously worried about why I didn't answer, she reaches to grasp my wrist gently. I jerk my arm back now, and the earlier concern on her face shifts to something more like suspicion. Oh, that's not good. That won't do at all.
"I'm sorry," I apologize hastily. "I'm just worried, you know? I mean, I'm sure you know, you must see a lot here, probably a lot worse than this – big city and all, right? Yeah, the kid gave us a scare and I was already a little beat, had a big weekend – "
"Sir!" She cuts off my babbling, but apparently it worked. The suspicion is gone, replaced only by genuine concern, and I breathe a reflexive sigh of relief. She apparently misreads it as a sigh of worry or fear. Either way, as she lifts her pen above the forms on the clipboard, her eyes and her voice are soft and charitable.
"Now, if you could just tell me your son's name and age, Mister –"
"His name's Mark. He's four. He'll be five on the twenty-sixth." I bypass her question of my name. And as I answer, to the best of my ability, the rest of her questions, each time she tries to pin down my name I side-step it. I give her Donna's name, which she puts down as "mother," leaving the line for "father" blank.
That's what I am. A blank. A man who is marginally concerned about his son and more worried about blood getting on the seats of his car. A man who wants nothing more than a cigarette and to beat a hasty retreat.
The nurse has released me, and I rise quickly, realizing I'm at a crossroads. Ahead and down the hall is my family, such as it is. Behind me is the door, my car, freedom. If I choose the rapid exit, I could leave a few bucks to pay for the bill, maybe a little extra so Donna could take the kid home in a cab instead of on the bus. I nod to myself. Yeah, maybe it would be for the best. What kind of father cares more about an eleven-year-old Studebaker than his own flesh and blood?
I'm reaching into my pocket for my wallet when I hear a familiar wail that can only be my son's, and Donna's voice rising in tandem with it. Her frantic call carries down the hallway.
"Mickey! Mickey! Mickey, I need you!"