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Claire’s whole body began to tremble, and Noah put an arm around her.
“Is there somewhere we can go?” he asked Ruthie. “While we wait?”
Ruthie finished tying the plastic bag and pulled it out of the trash can, then glanced around the ER. “Take her over there to pod 7. You can pull the curtain. I need to speak to a few people and I’ll be there soon, okay?”
Noah helped Claire to her feet, though as they crossed the shiny linoleum floor, she wasn’t quite sure who was supporting who. His skin had gone past white and was now tinted a shade of green, which could have been from witnessing Claire getting sick, or everything hitting him now that he was out of the enclosed environment of the ambulance.
He deposited Claire into a chair against the wall and pulled the curtain before he sat in the chair beside her.
She stared straight ahead at the clean hospital bed in the center of the room. “What did they say on the ride over?”
“A lot of stuff I didn’t understand,” Noah said. “Broken leg, but not through the skin. Likely concussion. Thank God he was wearing a helmet. They put a tube in his throat...” His voice cracked and he dropped his face into his hands.
They had to intubate him? Another wave of nausea crashed over her, and she slumped over and pressed her forehead to Noah’s shoulder. “Did they mention his blood pressure? Give him any medications?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
If they’d been required to give vasopressors to maintain blood pressure, Noah would have noticed. That was good. Hopefully it meant Graham hadn’t gone into shock, or lost so much blood he wasn’t perfusing.
Panic decreased a tiny, tiny notch.
“Was he awake?”
“Not when I first got to him. But he came to, seemed really confused, then passed out again.” Noah shuddered and pressed his palms to his eyes. “I—I can’t... This is too much like what happened with Nathan—”
Claire immediately put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Did you call Mia?”
“Not yet.”
“Call her. You need her.”
He sniffed and nodded, then pulled out his phone.
While he spoke to Mia, Claire stood and peeked out from the curtain, eyeing the room Graham was in. A few people came and went, and they weren’t running. Or covered in blood.
That was good.
Another tiny improvement in her mental state, but she wouldn’t completely calm down until she spoke to the doctor.
She needed answers, and needed to know exactly how bad it was.
Fractured tibia and fibula.
Concussion.
Bruised jaw.
Three bruised ribs and too many muscle and tendon strains to mention.
It could have been worse.
He’d spent several hours in the ER and was transferred to the ICU. Claire had been at his bedside for hours and so far ORL, ortho, trauma, and nutrition had been by.
For a man who liked attention, it was too bad he was so loaded on pain meds he couldn’t enjoy it.
Not that he’d be able to flap his gums at any of them, though—which would have been his favorite part. If he could talk, he’d say, “I’m fine” or “You shoulda seen that fall” or “No worries, I’ll be back on the side of a mountain in no time.”
But there would be no talking for a while. The doctors determined he didn’t need airway support and extubated him, but in the brief moments when he’d been awake he’d had trouble talking. It wasn’t common, but vocal cord injury from the tube was possible, and the doctor said even if he wanted to talk—which many people didn’t for several days because of throat pain—he might not be able to for a week or two.
