How to Talk to a Widower

phone.
    “It’s okay,” I say, but no one seems to hear me, and I wonder if I actually said it, or just thought it.
    Claire is crying and my father grabs her hands and pulls them off my shoulders, and then pushes back my jacket and opens my shirt. “Let’s have a look,” he says calmly. His hand on my bare skin is like fire, and I recoil so fiercely that I bang my head on the cobblestones, and his other hand, now covered in blood, comes down on my chest. “Hang in there, Doug,” he says, holding me down firmly. He tears a piece of my shirt off and uses it to clear away some of the blood pooling on my belly. “Can you hear me?”
    “Yeah,” I say, my own voice sounding hollow in my ears.
    “Good. Listen to me. You’re going to be okay. I just need to roll you a little bit for a second—Claire, put your hands under his head so he doesn’t bang it again—Claire! Pull yourself together and do what I say!”
    I can feel his hands under my back and then he rolls me and the pain is every color of the rainbow, sudden and complete, and then he rolls me back, and Claire’s tear-soaked face is hovering upside down above mine, her hands cradling the back of my head, and my father is gently pressing some cloth against me, just above my right hip. “It’s a clean exit wound,” he says, nodding. “Went right through you.”
    And then Russ is on the ground next to me, crying, and I want to tell him not to worry, that I’m fine, but I can’t seem to find my voice anymore, and Claire won’t stop crying, and I can hear my mother’s voice, shrill and verging on hysterical, and then the paramedics are there, and my father is giving them instructions, speaking authoritatively in medical jargon that makes me proud, and the flashing lights from the ambulance spin and blink, bathing everything in their kinetic red glow, and even though I can’t see them, I’m aware of everyone standing around me, Debbie, who is crying, and Mike, who is holding her, and Mike’s asshole brother, and all of my relatives, and everyone I’ve ever known in my whole life, and this seems like as good a time as any to disappear, so the next time the red light spins past me, I catch hold of its edge and ride it like a wave into oblivion.

38

    I WAKE UP AS THEY’RE WHEELING ME INTO THE EMERGENCY room, two paramedics, one on each end of the stretcher, and my father, walking between them, his hand resting proprietarily on my arm. A young female doctor in blue scrubs and a white coat falls into step with us as soon as we clear the sliding doors.
    “What happened?” she says to the paramedic closest to my head.
    “It’s a single gunshot wound to the lower left stomach with clearly visible entry and exit wounds,” my father says. “Vitals are stable, no signs of any internal bleeding. Start an IV, irrigate with five hundred CCs of saline, and get me a CAT scan of the stomach and pelvis to rule out solid organ damage.”
    “What he said,” the paramedic says to her, rolling his eyes.
    “I’m sorry,” she says, confused. “Who are you?”
    “Dr. Stanley Parker. I’m his father.”
    “Well, Dr. Parker, I need to call up for a surgical consult.”
    “What’s your name, young lady?”
    “Dr. Holden. Stephanie Holden.”
    “Well, Dr. Holden, you just had your surgical consult. Now, who’s the attending on call?”
    “Dr. Morris.”
    “Sanford Morris?”
    “Yes.”
    “Go wake him up and tell him that Stanley Parker’s son is bleeding all over his ER.”

    I am supposed to lie still for the CAT scan, but my wound is throbbing now, hot and itchy, and I just can’t seem to stop twitching. When it’s over, Dr. Morris tells us that the radiologist has confirmed no solid organ injuries, but cannot rule out the bullet’s possible entry into the peritoneum because I was moving too much. They’ll keep me overnight and do a repeat CAT scan in the morning.
    “Here’s my pager number,” Dr. Morris says, handing my father a card. “I’ll be here all night. You page me if you need anything, okay?”
    “Thanks a lot, Sandy.”
    “Anytime, Stan. It’s great to see your face. We miss you around here.”
    “I miss it too.”

    When my father wheels me back into the room, my mother is waiting by the window, Claire and Debbie are lying on the bed, and Mike and Russ are on either arm of the large reclining chair in the corner. Russ is still looking pale and scared, and his fear touches me even as I feel a sharp pang of guilt for