Chapter 53
ANDERSON
Sending Ava’s call to voicemail and silencing my phone is like holding my hand directly in a fire and refusing to take it out, even with how painful it is.
“Sorry, Doctor. Can you repeat that?”
I didn’t plan on being here at the hospital overnight, but when I finally got to Auggie’s room after talking to Ava, things got dicey.
When Uncle Artie called me, Auggie was stable, but that was short-lived. He needed to be rushed back into surgery, and it’s been touch-and-go all night. I couldn’t leave, not when I didn’t know if he was going to wake up.
He was shot.
My little brother was fucking shot.
And my mom is a complete mess, especially with the police refusing to give us the details about what led to it.
My gut has been telling me something was up with Auggie—the way he’s been acting, the questions he’s been asking.
I should’ve pushed him more, answered those calls from Alex and Archie, and called my mom more to check in.
But when Auggie sent those texts, making conversation, I just figured he had finally grown up. That he didn’t need my help anymore—just wanted to be my brother.
Turns out, he was probably making sure I wasn’t coming home anytime soon to fuck up whatever he’s gotten himself into.
“These surgeries have been tough on your brother’s body,” the doctor explains, bringing me back to the moment. “We’ll continue to keep a close eye on him for these next few hours.”
My uncle took my mom home last night when Auggie was finally out of his second surgery and deemed stable again this morning, and she luckily didn’t see the cops handcuff him to his bed, as if he could even get out of it if he wanted to.
The twins came by last night—about the same time I got here—but they headed home to get some sleep when my mom did.
So it’s my responsibility to get the latest updates on Auggie’s condition.
“There’s no telling what condition he’ll be in when he wakes up,” the doctor continues, going into some details about possibilities, but my mind is fuzzy, operating on a lack of sleep and trying to be present here when half of my heart is two hours away back at home.
When the doctor says he’ll be back in an hour, I settle back down in my chair next to Auggie’s bed.
I barely recognize my little brother under all the bandages and machines.
He’s pale, and when I touch my hand to his, it’s cold.
There are blankets draped over his body, and there’s a fear, deep and overwhelming, that he isn’t just sleeping.
But like he’s lost somewhere, not even close to waking up.
There’s swelling and bruising all over, like he took more than the four bullets that were shot at him. His shoulder and legs are wrapped where they operated, and his head is covered in bandages, making this all feel too real—my brother was shot.
And I still don’t know why.
Tubes and IV lines run into his arm, monitors stuck to his chest beeping steadily, and I know the noise will haunt me for nights to come. There's a clip on his finger, tracking his every heartbeat, and I find time passing faster than I can keep track of as I watch it, making sure he’s breathing.
I keep telling myself that he’s stable as I watch the machines. But they don’t change.
He doesn’t change.
It feels like he’s slipping away to somewhere I can’t reach, and I can’t help the feeling that it’s somehow my fault.
“Sonny?”
I jolt awake, my head popping up from where it was resting on Auggie’s bed. I immediately look at him, but he’s still unconscious.
There’s a hand on my shoulder, and I find my uncle looking at me with my mom and twin brothers standing just behind him.
His voice is hard. “The police are here.”
Standing up, I wipe the sleep from my eyes as two police officers walk into the room. One is about my age, and the other looks to be a few years older. She has her hands on her hips, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, her face unreadable.
“Full house,” she says, maybe trying to break the tension or maybe just stating the obvious to fill the silence.
“Did you find out who did this?” My mom asks.
Her eyes are still red-rimmed and damp, but she looks more rested than she did earlier this morning—the thought of how long I’ve been asleep briefly crosses my mind, but it’s gone when I see the look the two officers exchange before telling my mom to have a seat.
Standing up, I usher her to my chair, coming to stand behind her, next to my uncle.
“Ma’am, it is my understanding that you have a prescription for painkillers.”
My mom nods, and I feel my brows furrowing. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I ask, letting my frustration and lack of sleep show in the form of minimal patience. “Are you going to tell us who shot my brother or not?”
The older officer looks at me, her expression calm and still unreadable, virtually unaffected by my outburst. She looks back at my mom, ignoring my questions.
“Mrs. Montgomery, is it true that you’ve switched doctors a few times in the last year?”
I open my mouth to ask what the point of interrogating my mom is, when my uncle pins me with a look that has me shutting up.
“Yes, that’s right,” my mom answers, looking back and forth between the two officers. “There were some issues with getting my prescription filled when I ran out, and then there was a problem with my insurance all of a sudden not covering my pain medication.”
The officer hums, nodding her head, but there’s something about the way she looks at my mom that has me thinking she’s not looking for answers—she’s asking these questions because she already knows what my mom is going to say.
“And it was your son, Augustus Montgomery, who helped you with these issues. Is that correct?”
My mom nods, bringing a tissue to the corner of her eye.
“Officer,” my uncle interjects, stern yet polite. “Is there a point to all these questions about my sister’s medical history? What does this all have to do with my nephew?”
The officers look at one another before the older one finally looks at my mom and says, “Your son was dealing prescription drugs.”
All the air is sucked out of the room. I feel my vision go blurry, my heart beats so loud in my ears that I barely hear the officer explain how Auggie was involved in a drug deal gone badly. He had promised a customer a different amount than he provided, and it got him shot.
He was stealing my mom’s pills.
“There’s no way,” I interject, but realization hits me a moment too late. The change in doctors, the questions about her health insurance, the new job my uncle mentioned a few months ago...
“We’re sorry to hear about your son’s injuries, Mrs. Montgomery,” the officer says, bringing me back to the moment.
She pulls a card from her pocket, handing it to my mom who takes it, holding it in both of her hands.
“We can’t go into much detail about his potential charges, but we will be in touch. ”
I barely register the officer’s words, my mom’s sobs, my uncle’s questions, and my brothers’ denial.
This is all my fault.
I should’ve known something was going on—I should’ve followed my gut.
If I did, I could’ve stopped this.
“Sonny,” my uncle says, his phone to his ear.
I didn’t even realize he picked it up—didn’t even hear it ringing. I look around the room, watching the door to Auggie’s hospital room close behind the officers, leaving just my family in the room.
“Jack’s on the phone,” my uncle says, holding the phone to me. “Ava’s in labor. Her water broke this morning.”
What?
There’s no way I heard him right.
Ava can’t be in labor. Not now. Not when Auggie’s unconscious and waking up to be arrested. Not when I’m here, and she’s there.
She can not be in labor.
“Anderson,” my mom says, her face coming into view. It’s like everything is moving in slow motion and a thousand miles a minute at the same time. She grabs my hand in both of hers. “You need to go.”
I shake my head, not because I’m disagreeing, but because I’m finding it hard to believe that she’s telling me to go. She’s always needed my help, always expected it without even asking. And now, she’s refusing it.
“You heard her,” my brother, Alex, says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We got Auggie.”
“He’s right,” Archie adds. “We’ll take care of things here.”
I look at Auggie, at the twins, feeling like I’m being pulled in so many directions. I run my hands through my hair, pulling at the strands until my scalp burns.
“Anderson,” my mom says, her palm finding my cheek.
“We’ve needed you all your life.” Her voice comes out clearer, and that’s when I realize I have tears running down my cheeks—so many emotions flying through me.
“And we always will,” she adds. “But not like this. Not anymore.” There are tears in her eyes, too, and it makes mine fall harder.
“This was not your fault. It’s mine. Auggie is my son, just like Alex and Archie.
Just like you.” She offers a sad smile, letting her hand drop to her side.
“It is my job to take care of you all, not the other way around. And I’m sorry it took me this long to realize how poor of a job I’ve been doing. ”
“No, Mom. I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she cuts me off, shaking her head. “Not now, not ever.”
Then I realize, I’m not being pulled.
I’m the one stretching myself to the point of snapping.
I wrap my arms around my mom, hugging her tightly, giving myself a second to feel her embrace, one I didn’t realize how much I missed.
Then realization hits me like a punch in the face.
Ava is in labor, and I’m not there.
My mom pats me twice on the back. “Now, go,” she whispers. “Go take care of your wife.” And I’m out the door without another word.