Broken Glass (10 page)

“I know, but I guess we have to let him be his own person.”

“He’s just a boy,” he said, “just my little boy.”

“I’ll call you around noon and we can grab a bite to eat and have a chat about all this, okay?”

But lunch never happened. Just as I was walking out the door, my cell rang. It was the Vegas police.

Both Daniel and Will were in the hospital.

7

“W
HAT THE HELL HAPPENED?” My eyes were so full of tears, I could hardly see. Will was lying in the hospital bed; one leg elevated in a contraption, an arm encased in a sling, and his split lips the size of a bruised peach, his jaw maroon and purple. Frankenstein stitches along his jaw. They had refused to let me in to see Daniel. He was in ER. Plus, I wasn’t next of kin.

“I’m orry, anie. orry, orry.” Will could hardly move his mouth.

I came up to his bed. He was in a sad state, but at least he was able to communicate, at least he was conscious.

“Why?” I wailed, hardly able to form a sentence. “Why couldn’t you have just waited for me to explain?”

“Aniel’s a ’ollywood player.”

“You got the wrong guy, Will! Mistaken identity! Not a player, actually. And I can fight my own battles, I don’t need . . .”—my breath hitched up an octave, I sucked in some air to get the sentence out –“my younger brother acting like a crazed vigilante on my behalf!” I was too upset to have this conversation. The damage had been done: Daniel was in ‘Neuro, ICU’ on life support, in a coma. And they wouldn’t let me see him. I was a nobody as far as the hospital was concerned, with no rights whatsoever because I wasn’t family.

I collapsed on a chair and sobbed my heart out, my body convulsing in heaving waves. Will lay there motionless, bandaged like a mummy, doing no more than flinching, his mouth finding it hard to form words because of the obvious pain he was in—all I heard were his low moans.

But it had been an accident, they’d told me. One so crazy it might have featured in a Charlie Chaplin movie, or some slapstick comedy. One of the police officers had explained to me what eyewitnesses saw: Will flying at Daniel in the lobby of one of Daniel’s hotels, Will’s fists flailing. Floors that had just been polished to a high sheen. Daniel, not having ever met Will and taken by surprise, instinctively lashing out, his right leg kicking high in some martial arts move, catching Will hard under the jaw. Will flying through the air, Daniel’s leather-soled dress shoes losing purchase as he slipped backwards on the shiny surface, his head catching on the corner of a table and smashing on the marble floor. Will crashing onto his side, crushing his hip and arm on the marble, and breaking his leg in two places, his arm very badly sprained.

Daniel unconscious, his head bleeding—concussion—followed by a coma, an hour later.

History repeating itself: Natasha Jürgen dying from a silly fall. Would that happen to Daniel, too?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

His name was Daniel Glass. He was broken.

And I didn’t have the power to fix him.

8

I
HADN’T PLANNED on making Las Vegas my home, but there was no way I was going anywhere with Daniel in the hospital. Luckily, the manager who ran his hotel invited me to stay on, after Daniel had given him strict instructions to treat me “like a princess.” Those were the words Daniel had said as he sauntered out the door that fated morning. “Treat my girlfriend like a princess and give her anything she wants, when she wants.”

It pained my heart to think of my sullen behavior before Daniel and I had gone to bed, and that I hadn’t even seen him slip away that morning, that my last words to him had been, “watch out these claws could strike”, the night before. It didn’t feel right to be in his penthouse without him now.

Dad decided to stay on a few more days before going back to Vermont, until Will was in the clear. It was tricky for Dad—he needed to get back to work to pay for the mounting hospital bill. The insurance was fighting the claim. After all, attacking someone could not be construed as an “accident”, despite the too-slippery floors. All that money Will won on Blackjack, or whatever? Gone. Ending up “lending” it to Candy and his entourage of girls, who fed him some sob story about Candy’s ill mother. I should have known.

A lawyer was on the case—poor Dad was hardly sleeping for worry, not to mention how badly he felt about Daniel. Both he and Will felt horrible, Will full of remorse, mortified by what he’d done. I remembered my twenty-five thousand dollar chip—sadly, that’s where the money would be going: on a goddamn hospital bill, probably.

For the first twenty-four hours, the doctors wouldn’t let me anywhere near Daniel because he was in Intensive Care and I wasn’t “family,” but when they saw how persistent I was, and heard my story of how I was living with him, and working with him, they relented. However, they were pretty cagey about his condition, just letting me know that it was “a question of time.” I wasn’t in a legal position to make any decisions anyway, so they refused to discuss details with me. But the surgery, they assured me, had been a success. Except Daniel was still lying there with tubes in him, eyes closed.

IT WAS NOW DAY THREE. After I left the hospital, to go home, take a shower and get something to eat, one of the nurses called me to let me know that Daniel had snapped out of the coma and even spoken, asking for some water, but then slipped back. It killed me that I hadn’t been by his side, but the fact that his brain was coherent, that he could speak—asking for a glass of water—filled me with renewed hope. But when I tried to pin the doctors down, later, and get a clear answer as to what his chances were of a hundred percent recovery, they would not commit themselves.

None of his family had appeared. I didn’t know whom to call, except Pearl, and a few of his friends from New York. I needed his address book but couldn’t find it amongst his things at his apartment—I guessed it was all logged into his cellphone, which must have been on him when the ambulance brought him in.

I had been right; the hospital staff did have his phone, but they wouldn’t give it to me, for privacy reasons, until they noticed—something I didn’t even know myself—that Daniel had a photo of me as his screensaver.

His dad was dead, and Daniel had once told me that his mom lived in Geneva. His cell had a lock on it, but when I pressed 0000, miraculously it opened. I knew how much Daniel hated passwords—he’d told me as much—but still, I hardly expected 0000 to work.

When I called his mother, she advised me she’d come to Vegas “when she could,” as if his condition was an inconvenience. My mind boggled at some people’s callous behavior. What a double whammy it must have been when Daniel realized his marriage was a sham. Poor guy, his note to me about not having had faith in women made even more sense now.

I frantically looked up online anything I could find out about TBI—traumatic brain injury. The main nurse looking after him, Barbara, warmed to me and was very friendly. I had been hanging around pretty much all day, every day, lurking in the corridors, hovering around, asking questions, until she finally let me into his room. It was a strange situation to be in. I was the sister of the guy who’d put Daniel here in the first place. They couldn’t be sure, at first, I wasn’t some whack-job out to finish him off, smother him with a pillow, or pull out his tubes.

“I’ve seen patients in worse condition who’ve pulled through,” the nurse assured me, busying herself with his bed change. “He’s already woken up twice for brief periods of time, so I’m hopeful.” Her ample arms jiggled as she adjusted the stark white sheets, and her smiley face lit up the pristine room, full of tulips and roses, sent by several of his work colleagues.

I nodded like an automaton. Both times that Daniel had woken up happened to be when I wasn’t around. Daniel looked like a Greek statue, so handsome and chiseled, his lips curved into an-almost smile, which gave me solace; perhaps he was dreaming of something sweet. Me? Wishful thinking.

I tried to stay upbeat, send him rays of healing light, and not let my fears get in the way of his recovery. Of all people, I knew the power of my thoughts. My simple wish of wanting Daniel and Natasha to split up, had manifested in a way I had never imagined, so I was careful to force my imagination to now focus on happy thoughts and not allow it to wander into dark ominous corridors, where doors could slam shut and leave me locked up—a prisoner of my negativity.

The nurse made to leave the room, with a pile of changed sheets in her arms. “Well, Janie, I know you’ll keep an eagle eye on Daniel. I’m off to check my patient in room 303.”

“The horny old man? The one that grabbed your behind and proposed marriage?” I’d heard her mention this to a friend while she was on her cellphone.

She winked at me. “Patient confidentiality, I’m not allowed to discuss my patients, you know that.”

I laughed. “Good luck, see you later, Barbara.”

I couldn’t resist surfing on my iPad again. I needed to prepare myself. I read:

Immediately following TBI, two types of effects are seen. First, brain tissue reacts to trauma and to tissue damage, with a series of biochemical and other physiological responses. Substances that once were safely encased within the cells now flood the brain. These processes further damage and destroy brain cells, in what is called secondary cell death.

I glugged down my soda—the burn of the bubbles prickled my nose—the word “death” made me feel sick to my stomach. I read on:

As an individual regains consciousness (those with the severest injuries may never do so), a variety of neurologically based symptoms may occur: irritability, aggression and other problems. Post-traumatic amnesia (PTA) is also typically experienced when an injured person regains consciousness. PTA refers to the period when the individual feels a sense of confusion and disorientation – Where am I? What happened? – and an inability to remember recent events.

What if Daniel wouldn’t be able to remember me? That was, if he even pulled through.

Stop it, Janie, of course he’s going to pull through!

As time passes, these responses typically subside, and the brain and other body systems again approach physiological stability. But, unlike tissues such as bone or muscle, the neurons in the brain do not mend themselves. New nerves do not grow in ways that lead to full recovery.

I snapped my tablet shut. It was fruitless to worry and project about the future. I needed to get some sleep; I was driving myself crazy.

I spent the next few hours just holding Daniel’s hand, squeezing it a little, hoping, in vain, he’d squeeze it back when I asked him if he could hear me, or if he wanted me to kiss him.

No luck.

I finally left Daniel’s side to visit my other patient: Will. Dad was there, and both were laughing and joking. Will was on the mend and would be returning home very soon. I only wished I felt as free-spirited. Things could have been worse, though . . . I had to keep reminding myself that.

But however hard I tried all I felt was anger. Anger at myself. At Will. And oh yes, let’s not forget Cal . . . the biggest sinner of us all.

In a furious fit of rage, as I strode along the street, trying to hail a cab to take me back to Daniel’s hotel, I phoned Cal.
Damn him, if it hadn’t been for his ridiculous shenanigans, none of us would be in this horrific situation.

He finally picked up his cell on the fourth try.

“You owe us all an explanation, asshole,” I shot out, “and two hospital bills, and maybe a man’s life!”

“What the hell are you talking about? Janie, is that you?”

“No, it’s one of your blonde bimbos coming back to haunt you—one of ‘Daniel Glass’’ conquests, except, P.S.—while you’ve been going around masquerading as him—the real Daniel Glass just happens to be in a fucking coma!”

“Christ, I heard something but—”

“Oh, even better! You heard he was IN A COMA and yet you didn’t even get on a plane to say that you were sorry, let alone send flowers, even after he had pulled strings for you, got you that great job when he didn’t have to? Jesus, Cal, I really don’t think in
all
my years
I have met anyone as selfish and self-absorbed and egotistical as you! And that’s saying a lot, because I’ve worked with some real assholes.”