Ten hours from the time Molly’s gurney had been pushed through the ER doors, someone in green scrubs emerged, smudges of blood covering their uniform.
“Molly Greene’s family?” the man said, pulling down his face mask and removing the surgical cap covering his light hair. He looked haggard, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. All I could care about was hearing that she would be all right. She must be.
She had to be. Because I couldn’t take it if she wasn’t.
I leapt to my feet, rushing toward him. “Yes.”
“We’ve managed to stabilize her for now. She had a bullet lodged in her shoulder that settled lower into her chest cavity, so we removed that one first so her airways would remain unobstructed. The wound in her leg had both an entry and exit wound that went through clean, but the stomach wound has been more difficult to treat.”
“The bullet nicked her liver, causing her to hemorrhage. There was substantial blood loss, but we did manage to extract the bullet and suture the effected veins. She required a blood transfusion and may require another since her overall liver function has been negatively impacted. She came out of her surgery stable but has since slipped into a coma.”
For a second, I stared at him, unable to speak. Marco was the one to ask what I couldn’t.
“Can’t you do anything to wake her? To help her?”
“We’re doing all we can,” the doctor said, beginning to turn away, but I snatched his arm, forcing the words out.
“What about the baby?”
“Ms. Greene is in the earliest stages of pregnancy,” he said, as if that answered my question.
“Yes, and?”
“And that means it’s too soon to tell whether or not the trauma she’s sustained will cause her to miscarry. Right now, her injuries have to take precedence. She’ll be transferred to the Intensive Care Unit soon. I’ll have the nurse let you know when you can visit her.”
Another hour passed with no word, and I seriously considered ripping my hair out by the roots. It was the not knowing that killed me. All these unanswered questions. The doctor had given me more reasons to worry, not less.
The outcome of whether or not Molly would survive remained up in the air.
By the time the nurse finally came to get me, I was a jittery mess. I needed to see Molly, to be able to touch her, even if she couldn’t see me or respond in any way. I needed to be by her side, to talk to her, even if she didn’t know I was there.
The irony of the situation was as often as my brothers and I had been shot or received other injuries due to our line of work, not one of us had ever been admitted to the ICU. The unit was comprised of one, large circular room, the patients inside it placed in beds along the perimeter like the spokes of a wheel.
Every light seemed to be set to its maximum brightness, and the constant beeps and buzzes from the medical equipment going off was unsettling. Of course, at the moment, pure silence would probably have left me unsettled, as well. Molly had been situated in the second bed from the left, and I rushed to seize her hand with mine.
She didn’t respond, didn’t wake. I shouldn’t have been disappointed in that, but I was. I guess I’d hoped that she’d sense my presence and somehow be able to pull herself out of her unconscious state. It was too much to ask for.
It was too much to hope for.
I gazed into her face. Her skin, normally on the lighter side, seemed yellowish, jaundiced and sickly-looki
ng. Her eyelids were unmoving and her features slack rather than relaxed. She looked different than merely asleep. If it hadn’t been for the faint rising and falling of her chest, I would’ve believed her to be dead.
There was no seating available, presumably so the medical staff could move in and out of the area without impediments, so I stood there, brushing her hair back from her face. I touched her cheek, careful not to disturb the oxygen tubes placed there, glad it felt warm. Glad for the sign of life. And then I whispered in her ear.
“Come back to me, Molly. Please come back.”
Three days passed.
After the first twenty-four hours, they’d moved her from the ICU and into another room. The nurses had come in and out, bustling around her and checking things. They told me her surgery incisions seemed to be healing, externally at least, at a normal rate. But she hadn’t awakened or stirred for even a second.
My brothers began to stay with me in shifts rather than the three of them being there at once. I’d glance up to find Marco sitting across the room, or Alessandro staring out the window, or Gabriel standing in the doorway. I lost track of their comings and goings, but one of them remained nearby at all times.
The next time I saw Marco, he brought me two things: a small round camera lens about an inch wide and a manila file folder.
“The autopsy reports on our men came back,” he said, handing me the file. “They were full of a poison that works like a paralyzing agent. It was injected into their system by a couple of darts. That’s how they were brought down.”
“But they were disguised. Did someone blow their covers?”