“Shit. Everything okay?”
News of Stew’s heart attack must not have gotten out yet.
“Yeah, turns out he’s gonna be fine.”
“Glad to hear that, man. My sister just had her baby, so we’re gonna go see her, but can I get a pic real quick?”
“Of course,” I say.
“I’ll take it,” Sullivan volunteers, just as the elevator dings.
We pull in tight, the guy holding his hand up in a peace sign while I point at him like he’s the man.
They get off the elevator and the doors close before Sullivan lets out a chuckle.
“Is that your whole life? Just everywhere you go people want to take a picture with you?”
“Pretty much,” I say, sending her my best million-dollar smile and a wink before dropping the façade and rolling my eyes at myself.
The elevator dings again, saving me from whatever she’s about to say. The cardiac care unit is laid out in front of us, a large nurses’ desk surrounded by small glass rooms, each one with a patient hooked up to all kinds of machines, whirring and beeping, keeping them monitored and alive.
That panic from earlier – that faded when Sullivan said that Stew was alright – is back and it’s solidified into a hard knot in my stomach: small, but present, and making itself known. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I follow Sullivan past one patient and then another before we arrive at Stew’s room.
One of the nurses nods at us. “You’ll be Ms Sullivan and Mr Avery?” she asks, checking a clipboard.
It’s definitely past visiting hours. There’s no one else there. Clearly an exception is being made, so I make sure to be as polite as possible. “Yes, ma’am, that’s us.”
“You have ten minutes,” she warns, before waving us in.
Stew’s awake, hooked up to various machines, one probablymonitoring his heart, another looks like maybe oxygen levels and there are tubes in his nose probably helping with his breathing post-surgery.
“Hey Skip,” I manage to say, even though now it feels like there’s an actual rock in my gut.
“Figured you’d be out of it a little longer,” Sullivan chimes in, but her voice is soft, way softer than I’ve ever heard it before. She approaches his bedside and reaches for his hand, taking it in hers, careful not to disturb theIV.
I stand behind her, my back to the glass wall. The room is small, barely big enough for the two of us to crowd beside his bed.
“No rest for the wicked,” Stew rasps, and lets out a slow breath before answering the question neither of us asked. “Triple bypass. Lucky to be alive, apparently. Don’t feel that lucky right now. They split me open like a chicken.”
Sullivan cringes, but I force myself to laugh, knowing that’s what Stew wants, and the grin that lights up his face lets me know I read it right.
“I . . . we . . .” she starts and stops. “I’m sorry we were so . . .”
“You didn’t clog my arteries, Frankie,” he cuts her off gently. “Smoking for twenty years and forty years on the road eating terrible food did that just fine. Though I wouldn’t mind if you two could refrain from the bickering around me.”
“Done,” she agrees.
“You got it,” I confirm.
“Good,” he says, nods firmly and then winces.
“What was so urgent you need to see us tonight?” Frankie asks, her voice still soft.
“I’m gonna take a leave of absence. Doctor’s orders. Nothing stressful for at least a few months while I recover, and apparently my job is stressful.”
“Okay, so what’s the plan?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, leaning harder into the glass wall.
“You’re taking over.”
