Ties That Blind. Zachary Klein

as he lumbered toward me.

      “There was no trouble at the desk, was there? Lauren called ahead to pave the way,” he said, a tense smile crossing his face. “You see why it made more sense for you to pick him up than an ambulance, boychick?”

      I leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Not really.”

      “You won’t walk next to a hospital security guards. Imagine the kid’s reaction to a carload of uniforms.”

      It hadn’t been the guards who’d brought me up short. “This “kid” was no ”kid.”. Anyway, the deal only works if he doesn’t drop dead from blood loss.” Even as I spoke I caught myself staring over Lou’s shoulder watching Lauren finish her conversation at the desk.

      “I don’t think he’ll die. God, I hope not,” Lou added anxiously, the relief of our meeting melting away. I knew both of us were thinking about Mrs. Sullivan.

      Once Lauren moved in our direction I stopped paying attention to Lou’s anxiety and started noticing my own. Whatever her concerns, she carried herself with an easy grace and confidence, though neither calmed me down. Lauren stopped next to Lou and took his hand. “They’re working on him now,” she said. “They probably have to operate.”

      “Gutenu!”

      “It’s a good sign he remained conscious,” she added.

      Lou dropped Lauren’s hand and put his arm around her shoulder. I stared at my sneakers, saw new red Rorschach’s, and felt a twinge of anger.

      Lauren noticed. “You have Ian’s blood all over you. I’m terribly sorry.”

      “Not to worry,” I said, suddenly embarrassed by my attitude.

      She looked me over carefully. “Aren’t you cold?”

      I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell her about the ruined sweatshirt. I didn’t want to speak to her at all.

      Lauren emerged from Lou’s protective cover and I spotted thick strands of black hair peeking out from under her scarf. I couldn’t tell if they were dyed. Her coal black eyes punctuated a strong jaw and full lips. Still, there were a few tells: creases lining her neck, a small droop to the corners of her mouth, furrows across her brow. Of course, the worry lines were probably fears about her son. But if they were, the rest of her anxiety was well hidden.

      Lauren rolled up the baggy sleeves of her jacket and stuck out her hand. “We haven’t formally met. I’m Lauren Rowe. The boy you retrieved is Ian Brown, my son. Thank you.”

      I noted the name shift as well as her long tapered fingers. I also noticed her strong, sure grip. “I’m Matt Jacob,” I said, forcing myself to speak. “I hope everything works out okay.”

      “It’s too late for that,” Lauren replied. Then, spotting Lou’s alarm added, “I don’t mean the operation, sweetheart. Ian will be okay.” She smiled sourly. “There are some things a mother knows. Even a lousy one.”

      Lou grimaced, “You aren’t a lousy mother.”

      “Look at where we are,” Lauren waved her hand around the emergency room. “And think about why we’re here.”

      Lou shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t be foolish. I saw the way you reacted when the boy called. The way you spoke to him, settled him down. You never lost your composure.”

      I stepped forward. “Maybe we can find a more comfortable place to wait. Did they give you a time frame?”

      Lauren appeared grateful for the interruption and flashed a warm smile which, though weary, added to her appeal. “You don’t have to wait around, Matthew. You’ve already been more than helpful.”

      “Don’t be silly,” Lou cut in. “Of course he’ll stay.”

      I didn’t know whether to feel angry at Lou’s presumption or pleased by the undercurrent of pride in his voice. I shoved the former on hold and conceded to the latter. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving without knowing whether Ian, uh...”

      “Survives,” she finished grimly.

      I glanced away, “Yeah.”

      Just then, the large glass doors to the emergency room swiveled open and a tall, athletic, silver-haired man wearing a black sport coat, checkered sport shirt, and jeans barreled through. The man paused, then walked rapidly to our small circle. Lauren raised her tweezed eyebrows, glanced at Lou’s wristwatch, then nodded her greeting.

      “How is he?” the man asked Lauren but glaring at Lou.

      “They won’t know anything for a while. I think he’ll be all right.”

      “That’s reassuring,” he snapped, turning his attention back to her.

      Lauren’s mouth tightened. “Don’t get nasty with me. I’m the one he called. Where the hell have you been?”

      Before silver-hair answered, Lauren leaned toward Lou and me. “Paul, you already know Lou. This is his son-in-law, Matt Jacob. He picked Ian up and brought him to the hospital. Matthew, this is Paul, my former husband.”

      

      I should have split when Lauren had given me the chance. Even Lou shifted from foot to foot. But before anyone broke the tense silence, a gown flapping doctor with a clipboard rushed up.

      “I’m Dr. Schneider and I’ll be doing the surgery on...” he glanced at his papers, “Ian. They’re prepping him now.” The doc kept his eyes on the clipboard while he gave us a moment to register his announcement.

      Lauren twisted toward Paul, stared coldly, then returned her attention to the White Coat. Me? I was real sorry I’d listened to Boots about the dope and doubly sorry I’d talked myself out of Jimmy’s bourbon, whatever the fucking brand.

      “We’ll have to go in,” Dr. Schneider said somberly. “He’s lost a great deal of blood, but we don’t know where it’s from.” He added curtly, “It makes a difference...”

      I barely heard the rest of his words.

      “...Stomach, liver, vital organs... young, strong, in and out of consciousness... I’m sorry to say there are no guarantees,” Dr. Schneider warned.

      The surprise of learning about Lauren’s existence, rushing Ian to the hospital, the night’s thick, pungent blood, the doctor’s “we just don’t know, no guarantees” pushed past my guard, shoving me back to the countless hours I’d spent glued to an uncomfortable hospital couch. Stuck helplessly, hopelessly for Chana and Rebecca.

      “We just don’t know, Mr. Jacob.” I could still hear the doctor’s words after all these years. “We have nothing in the way of guarantees in situations like these.”

      They claimed not to know, but it was a lie. Those doctors said everything was a “maybe.” And that was a lie. Everything was a when, and I’d known it the moment I saw them lying in the Intensive Care Unit. I knew what I was waiting for during those interminable days and nights. I was waiting for them to die. Strapped onto beds, invaded by plastic tubes, obscenely scoped through cold scraps of metal machinery, and monitor screens. Their deaths had been the unspoken guarantee.

      My memories triggered the same bitter rage and I felt it trickle through my veins. Soon after Chana and Becky died, that rage had me booked for assault and battery charges brought by a bartender who’d refused me a drink. But I was lucky. My longtime friend and high-powered attorney, Simon Roth, called in the outstanding paper and made it disappear. When I couldn’t face returning to social work, Simon pulled another ace and bought me a new career as a private investigator. My part of the deal was therapy. Four long years of it, I reminded myself, biting back the growing bile.

      “Are you okay, Matty?” Lou asked quietly.

      “Yeah,”