Page 96 of Priestly Sins
I screech to a halt at the emergency room and I throw the car in park and bolt out, almost getting tangled in the seat belt as I go. Sirona checks in and I follow closely behind only to be stonewalled by a solid woman, whose take-no-shit attitude might as well be a sign on her forehead.
She tells me nothing.
For two hours, she doesn’t let me ask questions and says not to come back and ask again. Her annoyed eyes follow as I pace. The squeak of my shoes annoys even me. The silence in its absence, though, is unbearable so I continue wearing out the linoleum floors.
My thoughts are not good.
My prayers are merely bargaining pleas.
The dread bubbling inside threatens to drown me.
No matter how many times I go to the nurses’ station or welcome desk or whatever this thing is, the answer is always, “We’ll inform you when we know something.”
“Bullshit!” is my response when Bertha or whatever her name is spouts this again.
If she’d just give me information, I’d… Well, nothing would change. I’d still be at her desk and in her face regularly. But since I’m getting nothing, I pace and I pray.
She cuts her eyes at me, probably more than I notice, presumably annoyed with my pacing and general inability to calm myself. How is anyone ever calm in here? It’s life or death—literally. And it’s my Sirona in there. And no one can or will tell me a goddamned thing.
Once I go to the bathroom, just to kill time. Another time, I venture to the parking lot, double-checking the rental car for any paperwork, hairs, bags, anything that links the vehicle to me or to Staunchley before throwing the keys in the trunk and locking it. I walk away without a second glance.
I go back to my waiting room, still pacing. Until I hear her.
“Poppa!”
My girl bounds into my arms and throws her arms around my neck, burrowing in. She pauses to kiss my cheek and go back to her position. She may think she’s receiving strength and comfort, but truly she is offering it at a time when I have none and I need it—need it so desperately from her.
“Clara Bell. I sure do love you. You know that?”
She pulls back and frames my face with her little palms. “I love you, too, Poppa!”
And this is all I need to get through this moment.
When she slides her little face into my neck, I lift my eyes to meet Killian’s serious gaze.
And we wait like this, me holding my girl, pacing, listening to the squeak of my shoes on the floor for what feels like an eternity.
When Clara goes limp in my arms and her weight deepens into my hip and shoulder, I turn her face to Killian, silently asking if she’s asleep.
“Aye.”
“Tell me.”
“Clara showed up with flowers. Said her ma told her to come show me. She listened and ran all the way to the cottage. Told me a man with red hair showed up and said they were for her. He gave them to her and when Sirona told her to come to me, he was none too happy. From the looks of it, and I don’t know exactly, Sirona saved Clara and allowed her to get away while putting herself in the path of that fecker. She bought her enough time to get to my house but beyond that? There’s a gap that Sirona will have to fill in. I ran to your house and found the ginger bloke holding a knife above her and snapped. You came in not long after.”
Thank God my beautiful girl is asleep on my lap. It’ll save me from owing the ER for punching holes in their walls to release this rage. Months! This fucker has been terrorizing me for months. Me, my friends, my family. No, even before that with his refusal to do my wishes regarding my father’s will.
I might’ve had to come out of retirement if Sirona hadn’t vindicated our family.
In pure Killian fashion, he nods and settles into his chair, waiting with all the patience in the world to hear how Sirona is.
Before my fortieth birthday—okay, slight exaggeration—before six that evening, someone in scrubs with a mask dropped around her throat walks out into the waiting room and says, “Sirona O’Shaughnessy?”
“Yes,” we reply in unison.
“I’m Dr. Brennan. Sirona made it through surgery and is in recovery. She lost a lot of blood prior to arriving. We’ve supplemented with donor blood and managed to get her vitals stable. Her hand is another story. We stabilized it: protected the arteries and veins, repositioned the muscles and tendons as best we were able. We recommend going to Dublin to see an orthopedic surgeon. There are more locally, but the technology in the surgical suites there may be worth the travel and cost. The hope is that we can keep as much function as possible, but we cannot account for nerve damage and reduced blood circulation to the fingers. Expect extensive physical therapy will be necessary to avoid loss of her fingers. While I cannot speak directly, I’d assume you’re looking at multiple surgeries over the course of months or until we can determine the full extent of the nerve and tissue damage.”
Killian and I just stare. I had no idea. He obviously didn’t either.