Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (9 page)

Now he was the one who was uncomprehending, and he curiously looked the tiger over as if I were referring to it as a canine.

“The dog you brought.” Rolling with the conversation change, I explained, “It’s a cartoon character, ‘Bandit.’ One of his favorite cartoons. You did good.”

“Bandit huh?” Returning Tiggy to sit beside Bandit, he fixed his attention to me. Visibly, his features had relaxed some. “What are we going to tell your family?”

“We?”

Dark eyes assessed my face, moving so slowly and so intensely that they felt like a physical caress. At last, they stopped on mine. “They seem to have already guessed…”

My breathing slowed under his intimate appraisal, yet at the same time, expelled and inhaled in short breaths. “Are you staying?” Feeling my own hopeful heart and realizing how I must be looking at him, I hurriedly clarified, wanting to make sure he knew my words related to the hospital, and not staying in general, “If you don’t want to wait around—”

Three short raps on the door interrupted mid-sentence, and this time, I turned, ready to snap at my mother. Instead of my parent, a tall woman dressed in full scrubs, even to the booties and cap, and the mask hanging around her neck, entered. “Mr. and Mrs. Duplei?”

“Uh, I’m Marissa. Duplei. Tristan’s mother.” For some reason, even though the surname was incorrect, the pairing of Mr. and Mrs. flustered me to stutter.

“I have an update on Tristan’s condition. Are you his father?” In the ensuing silence, the CRNA, like all medical staff, seemed rushed, and reworded her initial speculation. “As I’ve come straight from surgery and don’t have the patient’s signed confidentiality record, I have to ask that anyone who is not a parent or guardian of the patient step out for a moment, please.”

Jack shifted his eyes from the nurse to me, and a few tense seconds ticked by. Muted by conflict and confusion, I could only stare back. I wanted to tell him to stay. Yet another part of me was curious to see what he would do–whether he would choose to stay and insist on being the parent that he was.

A lump of disappointment lodged in my throat when he quietly exited the room, and yet a weight of relief lifted. Surely, he had no interest in custody.

“Ms. Duplei, the surgery went well. However, Tristan experienced an allergic reaction to the anesthesia.”

The weight crashed back down with a crushing force, and without pause, the woman gently continued, “He’s having some breathing problems. The prognosis is good, but he gave us a scare in OR. Instead of bringing him here, we’ve moved him into a critical care unit so he can be closely monitored. We would like to move you to the waiting area there.” Darkness dimmed my vision, swiftly bleeding from the outer edges, moving to meet in the middle. Shaking it off before I blacked out, I felt the woman’s hand on my shoulder and heard her saying, “I can escort you, and one other person. If his father is here, it should be him.”

Unable to speak, I bobbed an understanding nod. Automatically, my gaze swept the room for my shoulder bag, but it was still down the hall, forgotten with the shock of seeing Jack.

The nurse held the door open, and when we passed through, Jack, who was slouched against the wall with his fists in his jacket pockets, straightened to attention. Politely, the woman slowed her steps, and wordlessly, I grabbed at Jack’s jacket and quickly followed, dragging him along.

J
ack’s head tipped inquiringly down, but he silently matched my strides, and I let the fabric drop.

We were traversing the hallway away from the seating area, and I wondered if my parents’ and Olivia’s eyes were on us, but I didn’t dare turn to look. Sure enough, my phone buzzed from my pocket, quietly announcing a text. We stepped into the elevator as a trio, and ignoring the text for now, I looked up at Jack as the doors met and the floor began to lift.

There was one other occupant, and that man was intent on the newspaper in his hand. Clearing my throat, I croaked out an explanation to Jack. “Tristan had a reaction to the anesthesia. He’s in critical care, and that’s where we’re headed.”

Keeping my gaze pinned on the lit and unlit buttons to the various floors, I refused to watch his reaction. As he had chosen not to be a part of that news in the first place, I was afraid of seeing indifference. Grabbing him upon exiting the room had been instinctual, something that if I had given it even a second of thought, I wouldn’t have done.

“There’s a comfortable area where you can be closer until he wakes.” Extending the explanation, the nurse filled the silent gap.

“Can I see him right away?” I begged, stepping aside enough for the man with the rolled up ‘Herald’ in his hand to exit onto his selected floor.

“For just a few minutes.” Gently and concisely, the ICU rules were explained, and when Jack asked a question, the CRNA repeated the full brief on the allergic reaction.

Jack seemed like he wanted to say something more, but he looked at me and remained quiet. The tone announced our level, and we stepped out into the hall of the new floor. Once again, when my phone buzzed in my pocket, I ignored it, and in less than a minute, I was standing at the foot of Tristan’s bed.

Hyperventilation threatened my own breathing as I beheld the ventilation tubes, the IV tubes, and various machine paraphernalia around my boy’s bed. Dark hair strands were a contrast against the crisp, white pillow– a pillow that was half his size or more.

In a flash, I edged around the bed, and my fingers softly settled on his hot forehead to brush at his soft hair. His breathing was slow and even, as if he were napping, but the hiss of the oxygen flowing into the tube attachment beneath his nose wheezed over the sound of his breath.

Leaning and crouching to his level, I whispered my love and just crazy nonsense to keep talking. “Tiggy is looking out the window in your room, and guess what? He found a friend here. Wait till you see his new friend…”

For the last couple of minutes, I had completely forgotten Jack. But, as I spoke of the new stuffed toy, Bandit, the image of his placement of it beside Tiggy on the window ledge replayed in my mind.

Twisting my head, I found Jack frozen at the foot of the bed. Those dark eyes, which I could stare into forever, remained trained on Tristan, and the unguarded look took my breath away. So many vulnerable expressions played in their brown depths, creating a mixture that left me guessing as to what I was seeing.

Only one thing was certain. Recognition and acknowledgment of his own flesh and blood.

Feeling my assessment, his gaze skittered to mine, and his shields went up. For a second or two, there was nothing to see and then empathy lit the dark depths of his gaze as it roved my face.

A nurse appeared, checking vitals, and with a heartening lilt in her voice, related that the numbers she recorded were all good. However, her next words were firm. “Why don’t you have a seat in the waiting area, and we'll let you know as soon as he wakes.”

“Can I just stand here? I won’t get in the way…” Unwilling to take even a step away from the bed, I pleaded the request.

“I’m sorry. You can’t, hon. You will be right outside though. Any changes, anything at all, and we will update you right away.”

The rooms all circled a station where medical staff buzzed like bees around a hive. Tristan’s physician was among them, and upon seeing me, he handed off a chart to another professional and beelined my way.

Our way. Mentally, I corrected my singular thinking when after greeting me, the doctor’s speculative gaze shifted to Jack.

Putting his hand out, the surgeon made his introduction. “Hello, I’m Dr. Millosky. You must be Tristan’s father.”

Now, after seeing Tristan, Jack must know how obvious his relation was to everyone. Politely accepting the extended hand, Jack replied simply, without denial or confirmation, smoothly omitting his surname as he introduced himself, “Good to meet you. Jack.”

The surgery itself–as the nurse had said, and the surgeon now confirmed–went well. The surgeon explained that he accomplished what he set out to do. With therapy, Tristan would be walking crutch free within several weeks. The doctor also explained the circumstances that had brought Tristan to critical care, and that it was only a precaution because he was so young.

To my astonishment, Jack had his own input.

“They are saying it’s policy that Marissa can’t stay in the room with him. If he were in a single room could she be with him?”

The doctor answered that there were no single rooms due to the sheer number of patients in ICU but reassured, barring any complications, Tristan would move into his regular room the next morning. When Jack nodded his understanding, the doctor, who had been Tristan’s specialist for years, sent a wink my way before moving off.

As I forced my feet farther away from Tristan’s room and toward the waiting area, Jack asked, “What was that about?”

“What?”

Surprisingly, a scowl registered on his face. “He winked at you.”

Barely evaluating the tone that bordered on jealousy, I didn’t immediately answer. Instead, I pulled out my phone, my mind intent on updating my parents and Olivia, who after a half hour, would be crazy for information on Tristan.

“So don’t tell me. Whatever,” he grumbled. Standing until I sat, he took the chair next to me.

“What?”

The tone of his words, rather than his actual words, registered as I studied my phone. Fifteen missed calls and just as many texts. Tearing my eyes away from the tiny screen, I took in his face and felt a flutter in my stomach when finding his brown eyes all but green.

“Tristan’s doctor? The wink thing? He just does that. All the time. Not to me. To Tristan.” My thumb moved in a quick text as I verbally continued, “Probably it happened just then because my insurance doesn't cover single rooms on the pediatric floor. But, Dr. Millosky knew I paid the difference up front for one. After, you know… After I got your check.”

Jack digested those words and then quietly inquired of the money, “Was it enough?”

My hand buzzed, and yet again, my phone went ignored. The sudden concern in his question was startling, and I beheld his earnest eyes.

“I mean for now, anyway. To begin with,” he elaborated.

A warm sweet feeling infiltrated my heart– like the coffee Olivia had earlier forced into my cold, shocked hands. Holding his gaze was doing something funny to my insides, and I looked away while nodding. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You know, I could probably raise hell until they let you stay in the room. Just a perk of the occupation.”

Jack was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. At this, my mind stopped processing anything but that thought as I seriously considered what he offered. He was right. Tristan was a rock star’s son. That came with such privileges. Although I often condemned this sort of spoiled celebrity behavior, I now completely related when it came to a situation such as this. Protectively, I would have done anything a few minutes ago to stay in that room.

Nodding, I replied, “I’ll think about it. But, it’s okay for now. If he… if he gets worse, I would want to. Or, if he wakes up and they don’t let me.”

“Tell me. Okay? Anything you need.”

“Okay.” A gulp lodged in my throat, and I couldn’t look away. This was the considerate, chivalric man I remembered.

This was the man who had offered me a cold drink on a hot day; who had seemed embarrassed to hand me a stylus pen and a legal document during a kiss; who had held and touched me like a lover, not a quick lay where countless others had lain; who had gently kissed me before holding the door open as I walked out of his life.

This man had signed a more than generous check for a boy not yet determined to be his son; had showed up on the day of surgery; had recognized his son on sight.

This was the man of my memories, of my fanciful imaginings, and now a new reality right beside me.

I
needed to make my phone calls, and Jack mentioned going down the hall to a vending area we had passed earlier.

Olivia was my first call, and amazingly, she didn’t ask any questions about Jack after hearing what had befallen Tristan. When calling my mother, I caught hell for calling Olivia first, but my parent calmed down enough to grill me about Jack.

“Marissa, do you understand how much you embarrassed your father and me? We are your parents, and you walked off without so much as a brief introduction? If that young man weren’t such a hoodlum, I would think you were ashamed of us!”

Despite the seriousness of the last couple of hours, and especially the last half hour, I felt a giggle gurgling in my throat. How my mother’s actions would change when she learned Jack was a celebrity of sorts. Studying the French manicure Olivia had treated me to while helping me with pre-surgery errands, I let my mother run out of steam. By that time, Jack returned, setting both a coffee and a soda on the little table beside me, plus a package of crackers and one of mini donuts. Then he reclaimed his seat, sipping his own soft drink.

Nodding my thanks, I popped the top on the can and tilted the fizzy drink into my throat. “Mother, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. Anything that doesn't concern Tristan, we can talk about at another time.”

“You act as if you don’t appreciate me being here,” my mother bemoaned.

“Mom, don’t do this right now.” Feeling Jack’s assessment, I stared hard at the pattern on the carpet.

“I really have no reason to be here if we cannot see Tristan or be with you today.”

“It means the world to me that you’re here with me, but you’re right. Why don’t you go home, get some rest, and I’ll call you as soon as they put him in his room?” As much of a comfort as my mother’s presence could be, at other times, like now, it was the opposite.

“Excuse me for saying so, but you haven’t exactly been good with keeping us updated.”

In the background, my father could be heard muttering something reproving, and I knew within minutes my parents would be in an argument. As a child, I had been the peacemaker, running interference between the two of them. In my early adult years, I had distanced myself from them, but lately, these last few years, I found myself playing the diplomatic role again.