Totaled (33 page)

“Thank you for staying with him. I’ll sit with him now. You’ve got to be dead tired.”

“I’m fine, Bree,” Drew replied quietly. “What do you need? Can I get anything for you?”

“Nothing, honestly, I’m fine. I just need…can I just have some time alone with him, please?”

“Sure. Take all the time you need. I’ll maybe go shower too and come back, if that’s okay. You just tell me what you need. I’m only a phone call away.” Drew picked up my shaky hand and kissed the top of it.

When he walked out of the room, I simultaneously felt relieved and missed him at the same time. Making my way over to the chair where Drew was previously sitting, I sat down and settled myself in, since I would be there for a while. As busted up as my twin appeared, he looked so peaceful. I reached for his hand to hold it and grimaced at how bruised and swollen his knuckles were. As weird as it would seem to normal people, I swore I felt a little jolt of electricity or energy when my skin connected with Liam’s. Unfortunately, our soul connection wasn’t enough to bring him out of his comatose state. The fact that his heart rate and respirations didn’t change a bit was enough to shatter any resolve I had left.

“Liam, it’s me. I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but I’m going to talk to you anyway,” I said through broken sobs. “Please be okay. You can rest now, for as long as you need to, but you have to come out of this. I don’t want to even imagine a world without you in it.”

It took a few minutes for me to compose myself. There was so much that I wanted to say to him, and here I was, trying to get a response from his shell, just lying there motionless, unable to reply to me. I decided talking to him as if he could hear me was better than the deafening silence in the room, sprinkled with nothing but beeping medical reminders of his current condition.

“I saw you on TV last night. Everyone went to Flip Flops to watch the fight. Sue convinced Morey to Pay-Per-View the fight and we packed the place. Anyway, we saw you walking out behind Drew and Dad when they were announcing him before the fight. You looked good, strong. The announcer even joked in the pre-match commentary something like ‘I don’t know what they’re feeding these boys down there in Florida, but his training partner is just as big as he is.’ It was pretty funny. I still can’t believe that Drew won. I mean, I can believe it, but it was as shocking to me as everyone else, I think. When he got himself in that guillotine hold, I just knew he was done. It was the worst feeling to watch that. Well, the worst until I found out you were hurt. I can’t believe you got into a bar fight!” I could feel my breathing speeding up and my resolve shattering. “I can’t believe you were drinking! Damn it, Liam.” I was so frustrated at the situation and the fact that I had no control. “You can’t go around sucker punching every jerk who insults you. You’ve got to be more careful!” I bellowed, my voice cracking at the end of my sentence.

Realizing that I was crying and yelling pretty loudly, chastising my brother, who likely couldn’t even hear me, like he was a child, I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm down. It was then that the doctor walked in with one of the nurses. The doctor was a short man, probably in his early sixties, looked trustworthy and kind.

“Oh, hello. I’m Dr. Norman Snyder, the neurologist. Are you related to Mr. Murphy here?”

“Yes, sir, I’m his twin sister, Bree. Is he going to be okay?”

“I believe so, ma’am. He sustained a pretty severe head injury and is in a coma right now, but we expect him to make a full recovery. I need to do a complete neurological assessment now and we will repeat his CT scan this afternoon to make sure that there hasn’t been any change.”

“What could change?”

“Well, he could develop intracranial bleeding or swelling. We aren’t completely out of the woods yet. His initial scans were okay, but we’ll need to closely monitor him for the next few days. Once he comes out of the coma, we’ll also assess his cognitive function. Any trauma to the brain can affect how you think, behave, and remember things. I’m sure you have heard of people getting into car accidents and having memory loss, or having to re-learn how to do certain everyday things that we take for granted. We really won’t know until he comes out of this.”

“Can I be here, when you do these tests? I mean, can I stay here with him?” I felt pathetically vulnerable.

“They typically don’t allow visitors to stay overnight in the Critical Care Unit, but I’m sure if you’re quiet and stay out of the way, I can ask them to make an exception.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate that.” I didn’t know what I would’ve done had he not permitted me to stay.

“Is there any insight you may be able to provide in regards to his medical history? Anything we need to know? Your father was either not sure or just too upset to really be able to tell us anything earlier. Do you know if he’s allergic to anything?” He asked as he was testing his reflexes, shining light into his pupils and running his fingers along the bottoms of Liam’s feet.

“He isn’t allergic to anything. He’s never had surgery on anything, never even really been sick before other than the occasional cold.”

“We noticed what appeared to be a few old fractures to his ribs on his x-rays. Can you tell me about that?” I almost didn’t notice the cautious skepticism in his voice.

“Oh, yes, he’s a fighter. I mean, he fights mixed martial arts. He’s had broken ribs, too many jammed fingers to count, and I believe that he had his left shoulder dislocated about a year ago, but he refused to go to the hospital to have it checked out. He popped it back in himself.”

“I see,” the doctor said as he rapidly jotted down notes onto a notepad. “Has he ever had a concussion before that you know of?”

“I don’t think so. But as far as his cognitive ability, um, he’s not, I mean—he’s severely learning disabled. His IQ, the last time it was tested, was 47, which was when he was around fourteen years old.”

“Ahh, okay. How functional is he? Does he live independently?”

“He lives with my father and me, but is extremely high-functioning. He cooks simple meals, cleans up after himself, even drives.” I felt pride that he was able to be so functional and melancholy at the possibility of all of that, which we have worked so hard for, potentially never be achieved again.

“No kidding? That’s extremely high-functioning for that level of cognitive impairment. What is his highest level of education?”

“He graduated high school with a standard diploma.” I beamed, proud of my brother and myself.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Snyder interrupted. “I’m not quite understanding. A standard diploma? How is that possible?”

“He was homeschooled and was able to pass all of his aptitude tests for completion by the age of nineteen.”

“Well, I’m speechless, Ms. Murphy. That’s quite an accomplishment. Please allow me to give you my card. If you or your father have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call my office. The nurse will notify me as soon as he wakes up and we will go from there.”

“And you’ll let them know? About me staying with him? Please?”

“Yes, of course. Try and get some sleep,” he suggested with a smile as he walked out of the room.

How in the hell was I supposed to sleep with my twin brother in this condition?

Chapter Thirty-Five

DREW

Leaving Bree in that hospital room, alone, was almost impossible, but she seemed to need time with him. How was I supposed to argue with that? The sinking, awful feeling in my gut was getting worse and worse, the longer he lay there motionless and unresponsive. I felt guilty. Responsible. I couldn’t believe that I allowed this to happen.

Hailing a cab outside of the hospital, I gave the address of the hotel and tried to settle in for the twenty minute ride. It was hot as hell. Having the windows rolled down wasn’t even putting a dent in the Atlanta summer humidity, but when I requested that the driver turn on the air conditioning and got an unintelligible bark in some foreign language that I didn’t recognize, I gave up.

I was shocked to see commotion crowding the entryway when I arrived at the hotel.

What the fuck?

There were about twenty or thirty people huddled up, all with huge cameras in hand. I thought nothing of it, handed the cabbie a fifty dollar bill, and stepped out into the warm morning air, still wearing the blood splattered clothes that I was in last night. It didn’t even occur to me what or who they were trying to catch a glimpse of, until I saw one younger guy turn to make eye contact with me. “THERE! There he is!”

I was immediately bombarded with flashbulbs, noise, and complete chaos. The ruthlessly aggressive paparazzi, if that’s what I was to call them, were pushing and shoving each other to get closer to me. I nudged my way through the throngs, not even really seeing where I was going, as I was blinded by flash after flash.

“Drew! Drew, congratulations on your big win! Can you give us a comment?”

“Drew? Why is there blood on your shirt?”

“Dougherty! Over here! Look this way!”

“Drew, give us one shot!”

“Is it true that you were in a bar fight last night?”

“Is it true that you put someone into a coma?” I was about to lose my shit.

What in THE HELL? How do they know all of this?
Despite the urge to go all Hulk-rage-ballistic on everyone in this huddle of madness, I tried to keep my head down and make my way to the door.

“Who did you fight?”

“Are you aware that being caught fighting outside of the octagon can get you banned from the UFC?”
Motherfucker.

“Drew! Over here! One shot! One comment!”

I finally made it through the pandemonium to enter the hotel, where security greeted me and didn’t allow any of them to enter behind me. Unsure of myself and disoriented as to what exactly had just occurred, I made my way over to the front desk.

“What the hell was that?” I asked the young girl at the desk, who looked at me with a mixture of both sympathy and star struck awe.

“Sir, please accept my apologies. They’ve been camped out there since very early this morning. A few even made it into the hotel, but once they started inquiring about your whereabouts, we escorted them off the premises. I assure you that we take the privacy and security of our guests very seriously. We are doing everything in our power to get rid of them. Unfortunately, it isn’t illegal for them to stand outside.”

“Are you kidding me? I was basically just assaulted getting out of a taxi.” My blood was boiling with rage.

“Yes sir, I understand that you’re upset,” she placated. “We have a much more private back entrance that we would be happy to allow you access to for the duration of your stay with us.”

“I want to talk to the hotel manager as well as your head of security. NOW!”

She flinched at my demanding bark. “Yes, absolutely, sir. I will give them both a call. Perhaps you would like to have a seat in our lobby or at the bar? Our service personnel will be happy to get you anything you like, our treat, for all of the trouble this morning.”

“Fine! I’ll be at the bar.” I took a deep breath. I knew I needed to calm down. I made my way over to the small lounge and was relieved to see that there weren’t many people in there. I quickly recognized one person seated at the bar, facing away from me. His head was down and he was swirling a drink around in front of him.

I slowly and carefully approached Pat, taking a seat next to him. The bartender, a gentleman in his mid-forties with a hint of gray showing through in his goatee, came over.

“Jim? Jack? Johnnie? Pick your poison.”

“Uhh, actually, I’ll have a Jameson, neat.”

“Ahh, another Irishman this morning. Coming right up.”

I glanced over to see that Pat also had what appeared to be a few fingers of whiskey, straight up. He was holding the glass with his right hand, slowly swirling it around and around, just staring into it. He knew I was there, but hadn’t acknowledged me yet. So we sat. The air was thick with questions unasked. The tension was painful and awkward.

I had never heard a silence quite so loud.

Finally noticing some slight movement in my peripheral vision, I turned my head to look at Pat and saw that he was crying. Not bawling hysterically with shaking and sniffles, but rather a choked back, quiet wave of emotion that he just couldn’t suppress any longer. His face was stuck in a grimace. His cheeks were red. Tears fell slowly, creeping down the rivets of his face and finally puddling below him on the bar.

“Pat, I’m so—”

“Save it,” he interrupted. “Just save it.”

“Pat, please—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” His voice was steady and curt, each word spoken with precision in a monotone, calculated voice. The calmness that accompanied each word was scarier than anything yelled could have been.

“I’m sorry. I am so very sorry. I feel awful.”

“Horseshit!” he barked, finally looking affected. “You can’t possibly feel as awful as I do right now.” Pat shook his head slowly back and forth, like one would answer no to a question, all the while swirling his liquor around in circles inside his glass. A few moments of awkward silence passed before he spoke again. “I haven’t had a sip to drink in nine years, you know? Nine long fucking years. Not one drop since my wife was killed. Not one single taste since that idiot drunk plowed into her, stealing her from us. I needed her. Her children needed her. And apparently, we still do. I failed him. I didn’t protect him. And now he’s lying in a hospital bed,
helpless
, with tubes sticking out every which way. I tried to raise him right.” He hung his head, setting his drink down on the bar with a slam. “The truth is, Bree has been a better parent to him than I ever was. I’m a fucking joke.” He picked his glass back up and went right back to swirling.

I stared at this strong man that I had come to know over the past few months, this man I admired and idolized. I respected him and here he was, completely breaking down in front of me and I had no clue what to do or say. I reached over and stilled his swirling glass of whiskey, gently taking it out of his grasp and pulling it away from him. The action garnered a look up and I was met with the face of complete agony. I had beaten many opponents in my few years of fighting, and never, not ever, had I seen a man look more defeated than Patrick Murphy looked in that moment.