Crossing Borders (36 page)

“I don't know if I can put myself through this,” he said, for the first time admitting what was creeping into his heart. “Maybe I can't be with someone who's on the job.”

“It's something to consider,” said Julia carefully.

“I feel like crap even thinking it.”

“Why?”

“What kind of shit would I be to give up on love like that?”

“You wouldn't stop loving him, Tris. But it
is
fair to ask if you can live like this. It's fair to say you've been through enough loss and pain and can't lose someone again. You wouldn't even be asking if he were a drug addict or an alcoholic.”

“Mom, he's a damned hero; it doesn't compare!”

She gestured around her at the sterile hospital waiting room. “Doesn't it? From where I sit, his choices place his life at risk. Sure, he's a hero. No one is saying anything to the contrary. I happen to think he's a really, really good man. But only you know whether you can live with the pain of knowing every day that this is one possible scenario.”

“Oh, Mom.” Tristan began to cry again.

“I'm not strong enough to love anyone except you kids. That's my choice. I feel like I can live with that.”

“Shit.”

“On the other hand, baby, everybody dies,” Julia murmured, putting her arms back around him. “Everything ends. It's not good enough to find yourself a nice, safe architect.”

“I know.
I know
.”

“So you either love or you don't; the end is out of your hands.” She gave him a hard squeeze. “But how you live and what you can stand, that's on you, Tristan, and I urge you to make your decision with your eyes wide open and cherish what you get.”

Tristan closed his eyes and just leaned on her as he always had. Always would. “Love you.”

“Love you back,” said Julia.

They stayed like that for a while, until Julia decided Tristan needed to eat and over his protests went to Carl's Jr. to purchase some lunch for him. He was enjoying a shake when a commotion started at the door, the officers in the room getting up and moving all at once. At first his heart stopped because he thought something might have happened to Michael—that he might have taken a turn for the worse—and he closed his eyes against the pain of that. Then he felt a strong, sure hand tug at his, and he realized Emma had returned at last.

“Come on, baby,” she said. “I got your messages. Let's go kick some ass.”

“Huh?” Tristan said as she pulled him to the information desk.

“My name is Emma Truax; I'm Officer Truax's mother. And this?” she said. “Is Tristan, who for the purposes of this discussion is also my son.”

Tristan noticed the doctor seemed tired when he'd looked briefly at his eyes, but after that, he found he could focus only on the man's clogs, which were screaming red polyvinyl and looked like nothing so much as red licorice made into footwear. While focused on the whimsical shoes, critical information that included the words perforated, collapsed, nicked, hemorrhage, the number of units of transfused blood, the nature of each and every lurking danger, and Michael's prognosis for recovery bounced off of him and around the sterile hallway like little steel ball bearings.

“Anyway,” the doctor said at last, replacing the pen he was making notes with into the pocket of his lab coat. “It's a very serious, life-threatening injury. I don't mean to frighten you, but the only reason he made it this far is that he had an EMT on scene at the time of the stabbing, and he was less than ten minutes away. He's a lucky man, and I'm counting on his luck to hold a little longer.” He looked at them seriously, wanting them to understand the truth of his words. “It needs to.”

Tristan blinked at him. The doctor seemed to be done. He wanted to ask the only question he cared about at that moment, but fear clogged his throat.

“Can we see him?” Emma asked for him.

“One at a time and for no more than a few minutes.” He looked at Tristan closely. “Are you Tristan?” he asked.

Tristan couldn't imagine how he knew. “Yes,” he answered. “Was he conscious? Did he ask for me?”

“No,” said the doctor. “The ink.” He pointed to his own ankle. “The rules are immediate family only,” he began, and Emma drew herself up into what Tristan could only think of as a fighting stance and pulled him to her, standing as tall as she could at his back, which was not very, really.

“But you're not going to be a jerk about it.” She smiled. “Isn't that what you were going to say?”

“No,” said the doctor. “I was going to say if you need anything and anyone gives you any trouble, page me immediately.” He gave a card to each Tristan and Emma. “I'll handle it.” He stared at Tristan. “Love makes people get well faster. But not too much love.” He shook his head at Tristan before he left.

“What the…” said Tristan. He turned to Emma. “You go.” He gave her a little push.

“No, honey, I can wait,” she said. “You go on. I think I've had longer to get used to the idea of this.”

Tristan swallowed hard. “I'm…” he began, in a whisper. “I'm scared. You go first. Tell me what to expect, okay?”

Emma stroked his arm. “All right, baby. I'll go in. You lean against the wall; you look like you're going to fall right over.” She slipped quietly through the door.

Tristan stood with his back against the wall. The
Jeopardy
theme was back. He looked at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, going over in his mind all the things he knew about light as if remembering what he knew about science could somehow tilt the scales of fortune in his favor in this place.

It seemed like an interminable wait before Emma came out. Her eyes were red. “I think I was kidding myself,” she murmured. “I could never get used to the idea of that.”

Tristan put a hand out to steady her. “Mom's out there.” He indicated the waiting room.

“Thank you.”

Tristan watched her walk away. It only remained now for him to open the door to the small room where Michael lay injured, yet he found he had little courage to do so.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, Tristan entered the room, immediately aware of the beeping of the monitors and the stillness of the form on the hospital bed. Michael was connected to tubes everywhere. Bags hung from poles to hydrate and deliver medication, a nasal cannula brought oxygen, and tubes entered his hand from the I.V. and exited from under his sheet carrying urine. Everything was monitored, his heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure glowing green and red on machines. A small sound from the bed captured his attention immediately.

“Michael?” he asked, taking Michael's still hand in his. There was no response. The doctor said Michael was medicated and would remain unconscious for a while. That much he remembered anyway. He held Michael's hand in his, the tanned skin against his own very white and freckly hand reassuring.

“Did I fail to mention how very impossible it would be for me to live without you?” he whispered. He continued stroking Michael's hand, murmuring to him, and found the courage to sweep the short hair back from his brow, placing a kiss on his lips.

“You're my guy, remember?” he asked. “I need you, Michael.” Tristan continued his soft-spoken and one-sided conversation until he realized his time was up. He kissed Michael one more time, whispering, “Don't go anywhere, I'll be right here,” and then he was at the door, prepared for the interminable wait until he could see Michael again.

“Back soon, baby,” he said and then left the room. Maybe he felt better than he had since he'd heard of Michael's injury, but that wasn't saying a whole lot.

In the waiting room, Tristan was restless, his legs dancing as he tapped his feet on the hard commercial flooring. It would be hours before they'd let him see Michael again, and he felt he ought to be doing something constructive, not just sitting. His mom had gone back to her work, and Emma was dozing, snoring softly by his side. They'd begun a camp of sorts, with coffee and a box of pastries someone brought, along with books and magazines strewn about.

At one point Tristan made a half-hearted attempt at some homework, but found he couldn't concentrate, reading the same paragraph in his philosophy text over and over until he realized it and just shoved the damn thing away.

“Emma,” he said, forgetting and waking her up.

“Huh?” She jumped, her eyes wide. Tristan felt instantly contrite.

“Oh, shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” He swiped tired hands over his eyes. “I've got to take off, get some air. I'll have my cell. You'll call me if…”

“I'll call you when they say we can see him again,” she said. “Stay close by.”

“No more than ten minutes away,” he agreed.

“It's okay, baby. Go get some air.”

The car still sat where Tristan had parked it that morning, beeping cordially when he opened the door with the remote. He knew he should have stayed. He'd said he would stay, wouldn't leave Michael, but the war was lost. He
had
to move. He'd left his heart and his soul and probably the part of his brain he thought with in the hospital room in that bed with Michael. The part that remained just needed to
do something
. He parked along Harbor Boulevard, thinking about the last time he'd been here, and purchased coffee that he didn't want or need at the bakery around the corner from I.N.KD. He stepped into the small boutique and saw Jim looking at him through concerned eyes.

“Tristan,” he said, leaning a hip against the counter. He had light brown hair, what was left of it close-cropped, and glasses. He had a mustache and a tiny V-shaped beard and was pierced in the crease between his mouth and chin. “How is he?”

“Bad,” said Tristan numbly. “Not dead, which is good, right?”

Jim just stared at him, his sad eyes willing him to confide, to trust. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, I wondered if Meghan was here.” Tristan looked around again and back at the curtain separating the boutique area from where the office must be.

“No, Meghan's home today,” he said. At Tristan's crestfallen expression he added, “I could call her. She'll want to talk to you.”

“You could?” said Tristan. “I don't want to bother her on her day off…”

“Let's see what she says,” said Jim.