“You piss on his grave every time you fuckin’ breathe! You don’t deserve to live!”
I gasped and my grip on Jordan’s arm tightened, but he didn’t move.
“I know,” Jordan said, a quaver in his voice that tore at my heart. “I don’t deserve to live. But I am livin’. For some reason I’m still here, and all I can do is try to deserve that gift and…”
“Bullshit!” Ryan shouted. “He was the best, you piece of shit! You’re a fuck up and a murderer! And here you are, struttin’ around on our streets with your ho!”
“You don’t get to badmouth my girlfriend,” said Jordan, his voice dangerously quiet. “Say what you like about me, but leave her out of it.”
“Come on, Ry,” said one of the other men who seemed slightly more sober. “We don’t disrespect women. Let’s just clean up the trash.”
“Shut the fuck up!” shrieked Ryan, his eyes bulging with anger. “You don’t tell me what to do! No one tells me what to do!”
I had a bad feeling about this—a really bad feeling. This guy was totally amped and it didn’t sound like anything or anyone was going to talk him down.
He looked directly at Jordan. “You’ve got a debt to pay, you fuck!”
Jordan didn’t blink. “I’m not gonna fight you, Ryan.”
“You fuckin’ pussy! I’m not givin’ you a choice! You’ve been hidin’ all summer and you’re gonna pay for what you did!”
“I’m not hidin’ from anyone,” Jordan said, thickly. “I’m right here. Fuck’s sake, man! You and me were friends! You think I don’t miss him? Christ! He was my brother!”
Ryan shook his head. “You’re walkin’ the streets like nothin’ ever happened. You haven’t even started to pay.”
I couldn’t stand by and listen to that shit anymore.
“He pays! God, he pays! Every day!” I yelled. “You have no idea what he’s been through. He even tried to kill himse-”
“Torrey, that’s enough!” Jordan snapped.
The second he was distracted, Ryan swung. He was a big guy, built like a linebacker, and his punch was solid. At the moment he raised his hand, I saw sunlight glinting off of a large ring—a class ring. I cried out as his fist connected with the side of Jordan’s face, knocking him from his feet.
“Stop it!” I shrieked, but my words had no effect.
Ryan launched a kick at Jordan’s ribs as he lay on the ground, but he managed to roll away. Then the second guy, the one wearing cowboy boots, started on him and all Jordan could do was curl into a ball and try to protect his head. I heard him grunt as kicks and punches rained down on his back, but he never spoke.
I threw myself at the guy with the boots and hooked an arm around his neck, scoring my fingernails across one cheek.
He squealed like a pig and cursed, crashing backwards against the wall of the bank, winding me so I was gasping for breath and forced to let go.
I was screaming and crying, and I could see people start to approach us, but they were too slow, too wary, and too far away.
Jordan was on his feet, and I could see the anguish on his face as he tried to get to me. Blood was pouring from a cut on his cheek caused by the ring, and the side of his face was masked in scarlet. He held one arm across his ribs, and it seemed like he was having trouble breathing.
He was still staring at me when Ryan hit him again. He hadn’t even tried to defend himself. I screamed as Jordan stumbled over the curb and flailed his arms to get his balance. Boots and Baseball Cap punched him to the ground. I tried to reach him but the fourth guy, the one with the leather jacket, grabbed me by my waist and hauled me off bodily.
Jordan had managed to stand, and I could hear him calling my name, concern coloring his voice.
I think I screamed again and struggled to get free, but Leather Jacket pinned my arms and twisted his legs to the side so I couldn’t kick him.
The crowd was getting nearer, but still no one tried to stop the murderous assault.
Ryan hit Jordan again and he went down.
I was begging them to stop but they wouldn’t. I don’t even know if they heard me, they were so crazed with bloodlust, anger and booze.
Boots and Baseball Cap held Jordan up by his arms while Ryan hit him again and again: ribs, stomach, face, ribs, stomach, face, in a sickening tattoo of knuckles on skin.
“Stop! Please, stop!” I begged, tears and snot and spittle covering my face.
More people were coming out of the shops and café to watch; a few were slowing down in their cars, but no one came to help us. No one came to help him.
A blow to Jordan’s head stunned him, and he sagged to his knees. The two guys holding his arms let him drop, and Jordan toppled sideways.
All I could hear was the sound of Ryan’s labored breathing.
I tried to get to Jordan again, but Leather Jacket wouldn’t let me go.
Jordan’s face was unrecognizable. One eye was swollen shut, his lips were smashed, and more blood poured from his cheek and nose. His shirt was ripped and hung open, and his chest and ribs were covered in angry wheals. Ryan’s ring had done its job.
Still on his hands and knees, Jordan’s head hung down like a beaten dog. I watched the muscles in his arms bunch as he staggered to his feet.
Ryan hit him again before he was even fully standing, and Jordan crashed to the ground.
I held my breath, my voice shredded from screaming. My lungs burned as I sagged in the arms of the man who held me.
Stay down! I begged silently. Stay down!
A rumble started in the crowd as slowly, painfully, Jordan pushed himself to his feet again, and stood swaying, his arms at his sides.
“Look’ee there!” whispered one man excitedly, pointing toward us.
“I’m not gonna fight you, Ry,” Jordan coughed out, the breath heaving painfully in his chest.
Ryan stared at him, panting and furious. He swung again. Jordan crashed backwards.
“Fight back you chicken bastard!” he raged. “Fight back!”
I thought this time Jordan would stay down, but he rolled slowly onto his side, his fingers scrabbling at the dirt on the ground, his hands swollen from where he’d been kicked and stamped on. Once again he forced himself to his knees. Once again he staggered to his feet.
“Oh God, no!” I moaned.
Seconds later he was down again, barely moving.
Ryan turned to me, his face furious and frustrated.
“Why isn’t he fightin’ back?” he roared.
“Because he won’t!” I screamed. “He won’t fight back because he thinks you’re right! He won’t fight you because he can’t!” I took a shuddering breath, my words coming out faintly. “Because he believes he deserves this.”
“Bastard!” shouted Ryan, pushed past endurance.
Jordan was on his hands and knees when Ryan punched him in the head.
I watched as my love lay sprawled on the ground unmoving, his blood pooling darkly.
I tried to say his name but my voice was gone.
I don’t know who spoke, but there was a voice in the crowd as hushed whispers began to ripple among them.
“Someone call an ambulance!”
The man holding my arms let me go and I crawled across the sidewalk toward Jordan. I wanted to hold him but somebody stopped me.
“Best you don’t move him, miss,” said a man’s voice, a kind voice. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
I reached out for Jordan’s hand and held it gently in mine.
“Jordan,” I gasped. “Jordan, I love you. I love you so much.”
I heard sirens in the distance, coming closer each second, and a moment later the crowd parted. Somebody tried to pull me away from him but I wouldn’t let go.
“Let them help him,” said the kind voice again. “You have to let go now.”
A woman I didn’t know pulled me into her arms and stroked my hair like a child. My hands and knees, my shirt and my jeans, even the ends of my long hair were
painted with Jordan’s blood.
I watched as they fastened a brace around his neck, and carefully lifted him onto a stretcher. His eyes were closed, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.
I tried to go with him but they slammed shut the doors of the ambulance, and he was taken away from me.
“I think she’s in a shock,” a voice said beside me.
“Miss, are you hurt? Did you hit your head?”
An authoritative voice was talking to me.
I had just enough presence of mind left to realize that if I said yes, they’d take me to the hospital, too.
“Yes, it hurts,” I whispered.
And then they whisked me into a second ambulance and I was taken away.
I couldn’t believe what had happened. Had it lasted minutes or just seconds? It seemed to have gone on and on, a lifetime of watching Jordan beaten into the ground. Why wouldn’t he stay down? I knew why.
At the hospital they cleaned me up and checked me over. I had a few scrapes to my hands and knees, but nothing more serious. Even so, I couldn’t stop shaking. My skin was cold and clammy, and I felt sick. Someone gave me a blanket. But whenever I asked about Jordan, it was as if I was speaking ancient Greek. No one heard me. No one answered me! I felt ready to scream. I wanted to scream.
I screamed.
Several people jumped, and a porter pushing an empty wheelchair stumbled.
“WHERE’S JORDAN? WHAT’S HAPPENING? SOMEBODY TELL ME SOMETHING NOW!”
A nurse came hurrying toward me, spouting the usual inanities, the trite words that are supposed to soothe but just incense: they’re doing everything they can; you can help him most by staying calm; the doctor’s with him now.
I got their attention but I still didn’t get any answers. Perhaps there weren’t any to give. The thought was horrifying.
Hospitals lie. They give us hope of certainties; the solid buildings and wide, calm corridors make us want to believe it’ll be okay. It isn’t okay. People die in hospitals all the time. Our bodies are just fragile sacks of blood and pus and bones.
A nurse approached me with a clipboard.
“I don’t have time for this!” I yelled at her. “You don’t understand! I need to see Jordan. They hurt him so badly!”
“Dr. Manoz is with him now,” she said, her voice too calm and collected. “Let her do her job. You can help your friend by helping us fill out this form.
I took the clipboard from her, and she gave me a professional smile. See, I got the crazy woman to stop screaming. I am a great nurse.
She passed me the pen, waited a second to make sure I was compliant, then marched away. There were more important things to do than talk to a woman who was dying on the inside.
I stared at the form then started to scratch out my answers. My handwriting was barely legible, my hands were shaking so badly.
Name of patient:
JORDAN JOSEPH KANE
Age:
24
Date of birth:
Shit! Shit! When was his birthday? December 7th. No 8th. Or was it 9th? Shit, 8th, definitely 8th. It was late August now. That made him still 23. I think.
Address:
Buttwipe, Nowheresville, Tx
Relation to patient: Everything. No, they wouldn’t like that answer, so I lied. I wrote, ‘Fiancée’.
Social Security number:
Who the hell cares? Other than the vultures who make money out of people who need help.
Is the patient on any medication?
No
Does the patient have any allergies?
I couldn’t think of any. Jordan had never mentioned anything. Could I risk answering that? What if he was allergic to penicillin? I didn’t know.
Then my phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, my fingers trembling over the screen.
If you’re late cause you’re screwing that fine man of yours,
I’m going to be pissed! Bev x
Her message grounded me, and I knew I had to start pulling myself together.
Ignoring the hospital sign that said cell phones must be switched off, I called Jordan’s dad.
“Paul, it’s Torrey. Jordan’s been hurt. He’s been attacked and badly beaten. You have to come to the hospital now.”
He tried to get me to explain what had happened but I couldn’t bring myself to do it over the phone. His voice shook, but he said he’d come at once.
Then I phoned Bev.
“Where the fuck are you guys?” she yelled, on the first ring.
The only reply she got was the sound of me sniffing.
“Torrey? Are you there? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“They got him!” I sobbed. “They finally got him!”
I heard her gasp. I’d confided to her that my greatest fear was that someone would deliberately hurt Jordan. So she instantly understood what I’d said.
“Where are you? We’re coming to get you!”
I leaned back in my chair, the form falling from my numb fingers. I was too stunned to cry anymore.
Minutes later, Paul was scooping me into his arms.
“What happened, darlin’? Where’s Jordan?”
“They beat him up, Paul. Really bad. Four of them. They won’t tell my anything! They say they’re working on him but I don’t know anything!”
My words ended in a piercing wail.
Paul’s face was ashen.
He stood up angrily, and I grabbed his arm.
“I … I told them … I said I was his fiancée. I thought … just to find out … I mean I’m not … we’re not…”
He kissed my hair quickly and marched up to the nurse’s desk.
“My son, Jordan Kane. Where is he?”
“If you’ll take a seat, sir,” said the nurse, blandly.
“Not until I get some information. My son’s fiancée tells me you refuse to talk to her. I want some answers now or the hospital administration will be talking to my lawyer.”
I was so glad he was here. I was so glad to hear his kind-hearted bullshit. I wasn’t his son’s fiancée and he didn’t have a lawyer. God, I loved that man. I’d only known him a few months, but he’d become a second father to me. A better father than my own maybe.
We were reassured. Every effort … The doctor is working on him now … If you’ll just wait … If you could just complete the form.
We sat.
We waited.
Paul picked up the form.
Does the patient have any allergies?
No, he wrote.
Jordan didn’t have any allergies. I should have known that. Why didn’t I know that?
Has the patient been admitted to hospital before?
Yes.
Admittance Date:
August 2006, attempted suicide by hanging, damage to trachea. November 2008, punctured lung.
“I need the pen,” I said.
“What for?”
I took it from Paul’s hand without answering and added a line.
Admittance date:
January 2009, attempted suicide, severed radial arteries.
Paul was stunned and his eyes became glassy with tears. I handed him back the pen, and with a shaking hand, he filled in the last line, signed and dated it.
Next of kin:
Torrey Delaney (fiancée); Paul Kane (father).
I looked up into Paul’s kind eyes, so much like Jordan’s, and I thanked him without words.
We hugged each other tightly.
“I’ve phoned his mother,” Paul said, gently. “She’d want to know.”
“Are you sure about that?” I said, abruptly pulling away from him.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he replied, his voice firm with conviction.
We stared at each other, each with secrets in our eyes. I wanted to argue but I didn’t have the energy. I sat in angry silence for several minutes.
Paul’s head dropped into his hands.
“I never wanted to see this hospital ever again,” he said, his
voice broken and husky.
Oh God. This hospital. The place he lost both sons, in a very real sense.
“I’m so sorry, Paul,” I whispered.
He held my hand between his.
“I know,” he replied.
There was a flurry of noise as Bev and Pete flew down the corridor. She stumbled to a stop when she saw us.
“Oh no! Is he…?”
Pete grabbed her as she began to sway.
“He’s holding his own,” said Paul.
I didn’t know why he was able to say that with such certainty, but I found myself believing him. Jordan was strong. He could take a beating.
I closed my eyes, hearing again the sound of his head thudding onto the concrete sidewalk; bile burned my throat.
Bev sat down next to me and took my other hand.
“Is there anything we can do?” she whispered.
I shook my head.
“They’ve told us we have to be patient.”
I laughed an empty laugh. It wasn’t funny. It was painful. It was ridiculous. Who can be patient when you’re waiting to hear how your world has changed, maybe forever?
We waited. And we waited. The slow seconds wound their way toward minutes, and the minutes lethargically stretched toward hours.
We’d been there long enough for Bev to have drunk three horrible coffees, and two each for the rest of us, when a tired looking Mexican woman in green scrubs walked toward us.
“Mr. Kane?” she asked, looking to Paul for confirmation.
“Yes. Is he…?”
She gave a tight smile. “I’m Dr. Manoz. I’ve been treating your son. He’s pretty knocked up, but he’s going to be fine.”
My heart leapt and shuddered, and I learned to breathe again.
“We were worried about a head injury, but he started to come around a few minutes ago. The injury of most concern now is a detached retina. We need to take him into surgery immediately. There’s a good chance he won’t have any permanent loss of sight in that eye. He’s lucid now, if you want to see him. But only for a minute.”