Chapter 22
22
A very sat on the edge of George’s gurney in the emergency room with a handful of cards, humming “Silent Night.” She was scraping the bottom of the barrel for songs that would keep George calm.
She pulled the ace of diamonds from her hand and laid it on the six of diamonds on the pile. “Your turn,” she told George. “You need a six or a diamond.”
He put down a ten of spades. “Where’d you say Trace was?”
“Working at my café,” Avery said for at least the twentieth time since she’d arrived. She drew a card from the pile for George and slipped it into his hand of cards. “He would have come, but he was caught in the middle of something. I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.” She put down a ten of spades. “Your turn. You need a ten or a spade.”
George heaved a sigh and stared blankly at his hand. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I think I’m too tired to play anymore.”
Avery closed her fan of cards, then did the same for George’s. “You’ve had a rough morning.” She squeezed his hand. “Put your head back and relax. You should be able to go home soon.”
She straightened the deck, slipped it into the cardboard box, and set the box on the counter for the nurse who’d brought them in. When she returned her gaze to George, his eyes were still open, and the one on the side where he’d needed stitches along his cheekbone was developing a bruise.
“It isn’t like Trace to be late,” George said.
Avery lowered the head of the gurney and pulled the blanket higher on George’s chest. “Are you warm enough?”
“He’s such a good boy. Zane probably drug him off somewhere again.”
Avery glanced at the time on her phone, noticed there was no message from Trace, and pulled a chair up alongside George’s bed. She curled her fingers over his to check their temperature, but when he closed his fingers around hers, she left her hand in his.
“It isn’t like Trace to be late,” he said again. “Zane probably drug him off somewhere again,” he repeated. “Do you think we outta call school?”
She squeezed his hand. “No, I’m sure he’s fine.” To redirect his mind, she said, “Tell me about Trace.”
George’s gaze met hers, and his mouth quivered into a smile. “Oh, he’s such a good boy.” His gaze drifted to the ceiling. “And smart. That boy could be anything he wants to be.”
“What does he want to be?”
“An architect. Wants to build big skyscrapers, like the ones in San Francisco and New York.”
Avery smiled. “Big dreams. Why didn’t he become an architect?”
Avery swore George aged ten years right in front of her eyes. “My fault,” he muttered, almost unintelligible. “All my fault.”
She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. “Why, George? Why was it your fault?”
He just shook his head and closed his eyes.
Avery released a sigh, uncurled her fingers from his hand, and sat back. Whatever. It didn’t matter. She didn’t know how long he’d had dementia. Maybe that had interfered with Trace’s ability to go to school.
The curtain across the door swayed, drawing Avery’s attention to the doctor entering again. She didn’t look much older than Avery, which made her wonder what she could have done with her life if she’d made different decisions back when she’d been seventeen.
Water under the bridge. And lesson learned. She didn’t need to make the same mistake with another man.
“Did you get ahold of Zane?” Avery asked.
“I did. He’s signed off on everything, so as soon as we finish up the paperwork, you’ll be free to take Mr. Hutton home.”
George mumbled something unintelligible but didn’t open his eyes, so Avery told the doctor, “Great. Thank you.”
“No problem. The nurse will be in with instructions on wound care and bandaging. It’s pretty straightforward. I understand that you may only be with him a few hours today, so if you can just pass on that information to his caretakers, that would be great.”
“Absolutely.”
“Unfortunately, we aren’t going to be able to send him home with any prescription pain medications. He’ll have to stick with Tylenol or Advil.”
Avery winced. “I sat through those stitches. Isn’t his face going to hurt like hell when the numbing wears off?”
The doctor’s sympathetic gaze slid toward George’s cheek, and she lifted her brows. “Probably, but, unfortunately, his history of addiction prohibits us from prescribing narcotics.”
Avery chuckled. “Sorry. I just remember my dad, who taught me the meaning of falling-down drunk. He was always hurting himself and his doctors still gave him prescription meds.”
“They’re definitely both addictions, but since Mr. Hutton’s addiction began with pain meds, he’s at an extremely high risk of abusing those again. Couple that with his dementia, and sending him home with pain meds that he could easily become addicted to, yet not remember how many he’d taken, could be deadly. I’ll send him home with some stronger doses of Tylenol and Advil. If he’s in considerable pain, try using the two together for a synergistic effect. I’ll make sure the nurse explains everything and...”
Avery’s mind slipped out of the conversation, caught somewhere back around “since Mr. Hutton’s addiction began with pain meds.” She’d heard Trace had stayed with Pearl on and off over the years because of his mother’s cancer and his father’s trouble with the law. For some reason, she’d thought George had been using street drugs back when Trace had been younger. Or maybe she’d just assumed. But she certainly hadn’t known he had an addiction.
“Ms. Hart?” the doctor said.
“Hmm, what? Yes, sorry. Long morning.”
“I was just saying that we’ll give him something to help him sleep, which should get him through the worst of the pain.”
“Thank you so much.”
The woman slipped through the curtains, and George stirred. “Pain,” he mumbled, as if repeating the doctor. His eyelids fluttered open, his blue eyes hazy. “Need something for pain.”
“The doctor’s sending us home with?—”
“Not that shit,” he said, irritated. “Where’s Trace? Trace knows where to get the good stuff. We don’t need no doctor. Trace’ll just find Chip.”
Chip.
The name flooded ice through Avery’s veins. Chip was the straw that had broken her family apart. Her mother may have deserted them, her father may have been an alcoholic, but she and Delaney and Chloe and Phoebe had been together. They’d had one another to lean on. To depend on.
Until Chip.
Until Chip pushed Austin’s brother too hard in a bar fight. Until Austin’s brother’s death had been blamed on Delaney, even though she’d had no part in the event. Then Delaney, the one dependable constant in their lives, the family glue, had left town, and everything had started to unravel.
But George’s reference to Chip didn’t make sense. He had to mean a different Chip.
“George,” Avery said. “What do you mean, Trace will find Chip? Chip who?”
“That boy your sister’s seeing.”
Holy shit. He did mean the same Chip.
“The one your daddy hates.” George sighed and closed his eyes. “He’s always got the best stuff, and Trace always knows where to find him. Don’t need no doctor. Just need Trace. It’s not like Trace to be late. You think I outta call school?”
Avery huffed a frustrated breath and rolled her eyes. Forget it. Chip and Trace’s drug use were in the past.
Now, if only Avery’s problems could join them.