The Stolen - Jason Pinter [75]
colors. Unfortunately, I was getting used to white hospital
walls. The antiseptic smell. The forced, sad smiles on concerned friends and family members.
My ex-girlfriend, Mya, was finally at home after recovering from several surgeries after her body was shattered
by a ruthless sociopath earlier in the year. I'd stayed by
Mya's bed for weeks, comforting her mother when we
didn't know if Mya would pull through, then comforting
Mya when she went through the agony of rehabilitation
and coping with the murder of her father by the same man
who'd tried to end her life.
When you give yourself to someone, you carry the
responsibility of not just being a friend or confidant, or
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even a lover, but giving yourself to them when they need
it most. I knew Mya had desired for us to get back together,
and perhaps the most difficult part of those weeks was
being a friend while keeping my distance. Physical pain
went away, or could be stunted through medication. It
broke my heart to deny her my affection when she
probably needed it most. But she would have been hurt
more later knowing my heart still belonged to another
woman.
Seeing Jack lying in bed made me wonder just what I
could, or would, give the man. Perhaps I'd been too emotionally reserved. Or perhaps not given enough.
The doctors had measured Jack's blood alcohol level at
an astonishing .19, well over double the legal limit in New
York.
An IV was hooked into his right arm, tubes in his nose
pumping oxygen, his breathing slow and steady. A bag
dripped fluids into his veins as they attempted to flush out
Jack's poisoned system. The doctors also informed me
they would be testing for cirrhosis of the liver. They
guessed--correctly--that this kind of drinking binge was
not limited to last night.
A doctor entered the room. He was middle-aged, wore
thick glasses on his thin nose. His eyes were red, tired. He
flipped through the chart at the foot of Jack's bed, then
checked out the readings on the monitors by the bedside.
He scribbled in the folder, then placed it back.
"How is he?" I asked. "Dr...."
The doctor turned, then said with a faint smile, "Dr.
Brenneman. I've seen worse."
"You didn't see him before they cleaned him up."
"There's always a worse, trust me. But he's lucky you
found him when you did. The biggest danger with alcohol
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poisoning is aspiration and asphyxiation. He could have
literally choked to death on his own vomit."
"Ordinarily, I'd say he owes me a drink for saving his
life, but..."
"I don't think that's the wisest course of action,"
Brenneman said.
"When will he wake up?" I asked.
"Well, that's all up to him. We're going to keep him for
a few days and monitor his fluid levels, make sure his liver
functions are all up to par, but he's not unconscious or
anything like that. Just sleeping."
"Got it. Thanks, Doc, I appreciate it. And I'm sure Jack
does, too."
He waved his hand, dismissing any gratitude. "I'm
actually a fan of Mr. O'Donnell's work," he said. "I
followed his reportings on the mob wars a few years back.
All that violence with Michael DiForio and his murder, it's
all so tawdry and terrible, but I just couldn't turn away.
They never did find the man who killed DiForio, did
they?"
"No, they didn't."
"Scares you to think there's someone out there walking
the streets dangerous enough to kill the head of a major organized-crime family, and slippery enough to get away with it."
"I know what you mean," I said. "So did you recognize
Jack right away?"
Brenneman laughed. "Are you kidding? The man's a New
York legend." Then his brow furrowed, as concern melted
into his features. "To be honest, that's what upsets me the
most. I've been around enough alcoholics not to judge, but
you never expect to see such a, well, legend suffer like he has.
To do to his body what he has. For some reason, and forgive
me for saying this, but I guess I expected more from him."
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"Yeah," I replied. "I guess we all did." Brenneman
nodded,