The Reef

Occasionally there was the faint swish as the elevator doors opened and closed.
    Then softly, gently, rain began to patter on the windows.
    Tate dozed with her head pillowed on Matthew’s shoulder. She was awake and aware the instant his body tensed. Instinctively, she reached for his hand as she looked toward the doctor.
    He came in quietly, a surprisingly young man with lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth. His skin, the color of polished ebony, looked like folded black silk.
    “Mr. Lassiter.” Despite the obvious weariness, his voice was as musical as the evening rain.
    “Yes.” Braced for condolences, Matthew pushed himself to his feet.
    “I am Doctor Farrge. Your uncle has come through the surgery. Please sit.”
    “What do you mean, come through?”
    “He has survived the operation.” Farrge sat on the edge of the coffee table, waited for Matthew to settle. “His condition is critical. You know he lost a great deal of blood. More than three liters. If he had lost even a fraction more, if it had taken you even ten minutes longer to get him here, there would have been no chance. However, his heart is very strong. We’re optimistic.”
    Hope was too painful. Matthew simply nodded. “Are you telling me he’s going to live?”
    “Every hour his chances improve.”
    “And those chances are?”
    Farrge took a moment to measure his man. With some, kindness didn’t comfort. “He has perhaps a forty percent chance of surviving the night. If he does, I would upgrade that. Further treatment will be necessary, of course, when he is stabilized and stronger. When this time comes I can recommend to you several specialists who have good reputations in treating patients with amputated limbs.”
    “Is he conscious?” Marla asked quietly.
    “No. He will be in recovery for some time, then in our Critical Care Unit. I would not expect him to be alert for several hours. I would suggest that you leave a number where you can be reached at the nurses’ station. We’ll contact you if there is any change.”
    “I’m staying,” Matthew said simply. “I want to see him.”
    “Once he is in CCU, you’ll be able to see him. But only for a short period.”
    “We’ll get a hotel.” Ray rose, laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “We’ll take shifts here.”
    “I’m not leaving.”
    “Matthew.” Ray squeezed gently. “We need to work as a team.” He glanced at his daughter, read what was in her eyes. “Marla and I will find us some rooms, make the arrangements. We’ll come back and relieve you and Tate in a few hours.”
     
    There were so many tubes snaking out from the still figure in the bed. Machines beeped and hummed. Outside the thin curtain Matthew could hear the quiet murmurings of the nurses, their brisk steps as they went about the business of tending lives.
    But in this room, narrow and dim, he was alone with Buck. He forced himself to look down at the sheet, at the odd way it lay. He would have to get used to it, he thought. They would both have to get used to it.
    If Buck lived.
    He barely looked alive now, his face slack, his body so strangely tidy in the bed. Buck was a tosser, Matthew remembered, a man who tugged and kicked at sheets, one who snored violently enough to scrape the paint from the walls.
    But he was as still and silent now as a man in a coffin.
    Matthew took the broad, scarred hand in his, a gesture he knew would have embarrassed both of them had Buck been conscious. He held it, studying the face he’d thought he knew as well as his own.
    Had he ever noticed how thick Buck’s eyebrows were, or how the gray peppered them? And when had the linesaround his eyes begun to crisscross that way? Wasn’t it strange that his forehead, which rose into that egg-shaped skull, was so smooth? Like a girl’s.
    Jesus, Matthew thought, and squeezed his eyes tight. His leg was gone.
    Fighting off panic, Matthew leaned down. He was nearly comforted by the sound of Buck’s breathing.
    “That was a damn stupid thing to do. You made a mistake getting in front of me that way. Maybe you figured on wrestling with that shark, but I guess you’re not as quick as you used to be. Now you probably figure I owe you. Well, you’ve got to live to collect.”
    He tightened his grip. “You hear that, Buck. You’ve got to live to collect. Think about that. You kick off on me, you lose, and me and the Beaumonts will just split your share of the Marguerite on top of it. Your first big strike, Buck,