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A son who didn’t want to save his father it was almost biblical. They checked his blood to see if he was a match, but they didn't check anything else. His fists were clenched and shaking - anger - his shoulders were tensed, and his head was down in obedience - fear - and his eyes were shot with blood - anguish. I was not a doctor, but I recognized the symptoms.
"How bad is it?" I asked loudly so he could hear me over the two doctors who kept arguing next to us.
"Father?"
"The beatings." The boy looked at me with a mix of surprise and terror, a look I knew too well from seeing it in the mirror.
My words caught the attention of the other men who finally stopped talking to listen to our conversation.
"He...started when I was eleven. Got worse over the years. I can't hit him back because he keeps saying he'll make my mother pay for it." He has something to lose. "I can't do it. I can't give him my..."
And could anyone blame him because I couldn’t? I knew his pain. I knew how a bone felt when it broke, but it didn’t compare to the fear. Living every day scared that any breath could bring back the punishment...
"I get it," I said, because I did. "You have two options, let him die and rot in hell, but that would leave you always wondering if you're a little bit of the monster that he is...or you could sacrifice this, let him live his miserable life and watch you take your mom out of that hell hole. And hit him back on the way out." Eye for an eye.
No one moved. We just sat there and waited, and I had no idea how many minutes passed until the boy got up, straightened his back and looked at Emmy Shaw with a hard rock expression.
"Let's do it."
"Seriously?" the doctor asked, but all that enthusiasm he had before was long gone. He would be saving an abuser.
"Yes. I want to hit him back. Take me to my mom so I can talk to her please."
Shaw didn’t say anything more, just nodded and showed the boy the direction, but before leaving, they both stopped to spare me one more look, and I was not comfortable with the compassion I found in it.
When they made it to the elevators, Zachary came back and sat to my side.
"Wow, Rita, that was fantastic. Welcome to the ugly side of the lifesaving business." Going back to his coffee, he sipped slowly and frowned my way. "How did you know?"
I didn’t know if I could find it in me to start this all over again. Going over it with Jessica almost broke me.
"I was that kid once," I said, and the usual response came through. It was all there on his face: shock, pity, compassion, understatement, anger, they all flashed over his features.
"Your father?"
"My husband?"
"The fuck?" he said so fast, almost like it was a reflex.
"Zachary, I can't...not again."
He mumbled an ok, and we were both back to sitting in silence, only this time the comfort we found in it was gone. I felt exposed and cut wide open, but then something happened...Zachary let me see his soft side.
Wordlessly, he leaned over and circled my arm with his strong arm, and it worked. The heavy feeling lifted off my chest.
"Thank you, Zach."
"You know that no matter what happens with you and James, we have your back, right? I would happily break the back of any man who hurts a woman. Fuck, give me his name, and we'll send Jess to hunt him down."
I never believed I would laugh talking about my life with Trujillo, but here I was, almost convulsing.
"Wendy said the same thing. Why is Jessica the bully in every story?"
"Because she is a maniac. The last guy who cut her off in traffic is in therapy now." Oh, fuck.
We sat like that, joking around and talking all kinds of nonsense when his pager went off, the same time with a very lout alarm sound.
"What the fuck?"
