A Call, a Clamor, a Silence

        It was a normal Tuesday.

Having just finished school for the day, I shuffled to an old sedan in the parking lot. It was the stereotypical teenager’s first car: old, worn, and dull, but reliable to a fault. It wasn’t fancy, but it went from one place to another without issue. Today was no different, navigating me through the light early afternoon traffic to my normal afterschool job. 

My mind activated autopilot for the normal work tasks, and soon began to wander. In a few hours, I would be free of my daily responsibilities and able to do something a bit more enjoyable. Maybe my siblings would be up for a walk to the waterfall in the park, or perhaps my friends would invite me to something last-second. Of course, I needed to make sure I had enough time to set aside for bass guitar practice later, and I think it was my turn to help with dinner tonight…

The tinny sound of over-compressed rock music dumped me back into the present. My coworker, a friend and fellow student, smirked as I fumbled through my pockets to silence my ringing phone. 

She’s going to give me grief for my music. Again. 

Embarrassed and annoyed, I glared at the caller ID that outed the interloper who had rudely interrupted my reverie.

My grandma.

It was no longer a normal Tuesday.

My dear grandma is caring, hard-working, and diligent. She has the energy and experience of ten normal humans, and can run circles around anyone I know. Always the first to offer help when someone is in need, and the last to retire at the end of a long day. 

However, she is not a technologically-savvy person. She hated the idea of having a device that could disrupt her in the middle of her packed days, much less using it to interrupt others. Despite knowing it could be useful for important matters or emergencies, she avoided using it as much as possible.

Hoping this was some sort of prank, I answered the phone. 

“Uh…Grandma?”

“I’m sorry to bother you at work.” Her normal upbeat tone was strained with worry. “Your brother…there’s been an accident. Don’t panic, he’s alive, but …”

The phrase “he’s alive” is not as reassuring as one may think.

“What happened? Where is he?” I cut in.

“He’s on his way to a hospital in Boston.”

“Boston? What?” Boston has some of the best medical care in the world, but we lived almost an hour outside of the city. More importantly, we lived across the street from the local hospital. And our town wasn’t particularly large, could they really not have triaged him to the front if it was that serious?

“They…had to airlift him to a hospital that could treat him.”

My classmate would later tell me that she didn’t know a person could lose that much color in their face. Tearing through the office, I hastily shouted apologies and promises to let my boss know what was going on later. The slight shuddering of my old sedan barely holding together at high speed mirrored my mental state: a cacophony of emotions and worst-case scenarios, ready to tear itself apart.

The next thing I knew, I was going up an elevator in one of Boston’s premier hospitals. There, in a metal box with incoherent muzak softly droning overhead, I took a breath. 

My brother is a tough bastard. 

He was the middle child of three, younger than me by a few years but certainly the most energetic of us. In the turbulent upbringing we had, he may have had the worst of it. He could be stubborn, hot-headed, and prone to ask forgiveness rather than permission; he learned by doing, and when you are growing up you often do a lot wrong. An example: if mom told us not to touch the stove, I would ask why not. Our sister, the youngest, would nod and accept this restriction without question. My brother would touch the stove to find out the “why” for himself. It wasn’t exactly deliberate disobedience, but a genuine curiosity for things that had to be satiated first-hand. Perhaps this was a more brute-force approach to life, but one that made him mature beyond his teenage years.

The elevator doors opened, and I marched off to the ICU to face whatever truth was waiting. Turning the corner into one of the secluded visitor rooms, I was met by a solemn yet strangely familiar display.

My grandma and grandpa stood to the right, softly talking with a man and woman I didn’t recognize. A few friends and family were at one of the center tables, distracting themselves with cards and small talk. A few of them turned to look at the newcomer, and I saw the same emotion in their eyes I had in mine:

Fear.

No. This can’t be happening. Not again. Not like this, not–

Grandma’s firm grip on my lower arm pulled me out of the spiral. With purpose, she guided me to where she had been standing. The unknown man wore a white coat, explaining what his team was doing to stabilize my brother. The doctor was very careful with his words as he explained the situation, which wasn’t a good sign.

Unfortunately, he was less careful with the folder he kept with him. As he opened it to check his notes or records, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye.

TO BE CONTINUED