Chapter 45
MARLENA
“Brandon? Brandon?” I call softly.
He doesn’t respond, but I can see his eyes moving behind his eyelids.
That has to be a good sign, right? I barely notice that Francisco is gone, though it seems that we have a lot to discuss, but I can’t focus on any of that right now.
I can’t even worry about how Brandon is going to make the trip to Italy in his condition.
The doctor comes up to the opposite side of the bed with his stethoscope.
He presses it to Brandon’s chest and moves it around several times.
Then he shines a light into Brandon’s eyes again, I assume checking for signs of the concussion.
He investigates the bandages that are placed in key locations on Brandon’s body and finally gives me a hopeful smile.
“He’s doing well,” the doctor says.
“Is he awake?” I ask, wondering if Brandon’s sudden movement is significant.
“No,” the doctor responds. “But he’s better than he was yesterday. I’m going to start him on a saline drip. We have to make sure he’s hydrated.”
I watch as the doctor produces a pouch of saline solution from his bag, and a sterile needle wrapped in plastic.
He peels the plastic off and slides the needle into my brother’s arm.
Since we don’t have a stand for the pouch of saline, the doctor straps it to the bedpost. I wonder how many times he’s done that before.
He seems unconcerned with the makeshift solutions he’s forced to rely on.
Considering that he was the first person my husband called in an emergency, I’m betting he gets some steady business from the Corello family.
“Were you able to rest?” the doctor asks, concerned.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, although I really didn’t sleep that well.
“Here,” he says, handing me two pills.
I don’t know what they are, and I’m not sure I should take them.
But the doctor hands me a glass of water and encourages me to swallow.
I follow his instructions, knowing that he doesn’t mean me any harm.
I’m not used to this kind of immediate gratification when it comes to the medical profession.
Obviously, a regular doctor would write a prescription, and I would have to go to the pharmacy.
About half an hour later, I’m feeling good. There’s a sense of relaxation that’s entirely chemical, but I don’t care. I’m given a chance to put down the heavy burden of guilt I’ve been carrying, and that’s good enough for me.
I pick up my magazine again and watch as Brandon sleeps. Occasionally, he’ll toss or turn, giving me hope that he might wake up finally. But he just mutters and continues sleeping, forcing me to be patient.
Around noon, Frankie arrives carrying a tray. He knocks on the door and lets himself in quietly, as if he’s just stepped into the study room at a library.
“How’s he doing?” Frankie whispers.
I shrug, still feeling the mellow effects of the drug. “The doctor says he’s doing better. But he still hasn’t woken up yet.”
“I brought you something to eat,” Frankie says.
He sets the tray down at the foot of the bed.
I can see a fruit salad and a sandwich, both of which look amazing.
I’m suddenly famished and realize I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten.
I grab the fruit and begin to eat. The sweetness hitting all the right spots.
Frankie pulls up a chair and sits with me as I devour the lunch.
“Where’s your father?” I ask after I’ve finished my meal.
“I don’t know,” Frankie admits. “I guess he’s in his office.”
“How’s he doing?” I wonder, painfully aware that we’ve left so many things unsaid.
“I don’t know,” Frankie repeats. “How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess,” I respond. “Have you ever been in a gunfight before?”
“No,” Frankie says, but reconsiders after a moment. “Well, there was one time when I was five.”
“You were in a gunfight when you were five!” I exclaim louder than I meant to.
We both glance at Brandon to see if my sudden excitement will wake him up. He doesn’t stir.
“My dad and I were eating at a restaurant and someone shot out the window,” Frankie says.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Dad told me to hide under the table,” Frankie responds. “Which I did. I didn’t see much. I just remember how loud the gunshots were and how frightened everyone else was.”
“Were you frightened?” I press.
“No,” he says. “My dad was there. I just assumed that he would take care of me.”
I reach over and pat him on the hand.
“What did I know?” Frankie continues with a sigh. “I was just a kid.”
“He did take care of us,” I remind him.
Frankie nods, seeming to come to terms with something heavy. “He really does care about you.”
“I know,” I say.
We lapse into a pregnant silence. I guess Frankie is done talking, and that maybe his admission of Francisco’s affection is his way of saying he’s sorry.
I know he wasn’t thrilled about the wedding.
Actually, he was downright pissed. It seems like that’s all in the past now, and I’m grateful.
Despite the fact that Francisco thinks I want to go our separate ways, I don’t. I think I love him.
Eventually Frankie leaves, and I settle down to watch over my brother. The doctor comes and goes every few hours, checking Brandon’s vitals. As the sun dips toward the horizon, Francisco comes in to encourage me to take a break.
“Come walk around the garden with me,” he says, holding out his hand.
I know he means well, so I accept. My legs feel like I’ve been sitting forever, and it feels great to walk around.
We descend the stairs and go out the back door.
The backyard is extensive and I know Francisco uses it to conduct business sometimes.
But this time, we’re just walking around, smelling the roses.
He takes my hand, and we amble like an old married couple. Neither of us speaks, but we enjoy the companionship. I know I’m ignoring him in favor of my brother, and I appreciate his patience. I just don’t think I can fully concentrate on our marriage now while Brandon’s life hangs in the balance.
Francisco doesn’t bring up what we talked about before. I know him well enough by now to understand that he’s waiting for me to take the lead. He won’t pressure me, but the moment I decide I’m ready, he’ll be all ears.
After the sun has fully set, we go back inside.
“Why don’t we eat dinner together?” Francisco asks.
“I think I should go back and check on Brandon,” I say.
“Okay,” he responds, letting me go without a fight.
I tuck myself back into the chair beside Brandon’s bed, checking his saline bag. It looks like the doctor has switched it out, but I can’t find the physician anywhere. Assuming he’s taking a much needed break, I simply wait.
About an hour later, the doctor returns to check on Brandon. Frankie comes back with some more food, and we sit and talk.
“How is college?” I ask, realizing that I haven’t considered his studies in a long time.
“Good,” he says.
“Were you able to find another tutor?” I question.
“No,” he says. “But it’s okay.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I wonder.
“Actually,” he replies, giving me a sheepish smile. “I could use some help studying for a test if you have a moment.”
“I have nothing but time,” I say. “But can you bring your study materials in here?”
“Of course,” he agrees, going to his suite to fetch some notes.
We spend about an hour going over his course material. I’m pleased to see that he knows most of it. “I think you’ll be well prepared for your test,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says.
“I’m okay,” I offer after the silence stretches out to an uncomfortable length.
“Are you sure?” he asks skeptically.
“I’m sure,” I reply.
“You don’t need anything?” he presses.
“No,” I assure him. “I’m fine.”
“Alright,” he says, standing up. “I’m just down the hall if you need me.”
I stay upright until around midnight when I doze off. I’m only partially aware that Francisco has entered the room. He picks me up in spite of my protests and carries me into my bedroom. Setting me down on the bed, he pulls the covers up to my chin.
I don’t remember much after that. I’m sure if I was actually awake, I would have asked him to stay.
But the next thing I’m aware of is the morning sun coming in through my window and the sound of birds chirping outside.
I get up and check on Brandon before brushing my teeth. His condition hasn’t improved.
It takes three whole days before he finally opens his eyes. Thankfully, I’m there to see it. I set the magazine down on the bedside table, the same one I’ve read over and over since my vigil began.
“Brandon?” I whisper.
“Marlena?” he croaks, his voice rusty from disuse. “Is that you?”
“Brandon!” I shout, getting to my feet and running around to his side of the bed. “Oh, thank God!”
From the other room, the doctor comes rushing toward us. He pushes me aside and does a few quick checks of Brandon’s vitals, taking his temperature and his pulse oxygen rate. I crane my neck eagerly, impatient even though I know the doctor’s care takes precedence.
Finally, the doctor looks up. “He’s doing well,” he reports. “I’m going to tell Mr. Corello.”
Brandon blinks, watching the doctor disappear out the door before turning to me for an explanation.
“He’s a doctor,” I say, because to my mind it isn’t obvious from the way the doctor is dressed.
“I can tell,” Brandon quips. It’s nice to hear him being sarcastic, despite the fact that such barbs would usually get under my skin.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, taking his hand in mine.
“Like I was just run over by a truck,” he complains.
“I’m so sorry, Brandon,” I murmur, sitting down on the bed beside him. “This is all my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” he asks.
He glances around the bedroom looking for something.
I deduce that he’s thirsty, so I fetch him a glass of water.
He drinks slowly, taking in all the information from our surroundings as he does.
His eyes settle on the IV of fluids draining into his arm.
Then he looks out the window, where we can see nothing but blue sky through the curtains.
“Where are we?” he finally asks, the question I’ve been dreading or at least one of them.
I draw a deep breath, knowing that this is going to be hard.
I have to tell him everything, even knowing that he’ll be upset.
He has to know about our father, about Francisco and me, and about all the people who want to hurt us.
It’s not going to be easy, so I take my time.
Brandon listens patiently as I fill in the gaps between what he experienced as a kid and what I’ve come to learn.
“Our dad was a hitman,” I say.
“What?” Brandon scoffs.
“He killed a high-ranking member of the Andretti family,” I continue, my even tone hopefully convincing him I’m telling the truth. “Don Corello is the head of a rival family, and he’s agreed to give us his protection. He also introduced me to our father’s family in Italy.”
“You’ve been to Italy?” Brandon asks, clearly grappling with the immensity of our shared problem.
“Yes,” I reply. “And I’ve met the Roccas. They’re anxious to meet you too. I can’t tell you how amazing they all are.”
Brandon coughs, and I move slightly to give him space. “But they’re all criminals, right?” he asks point-blank.
“Yes,” I’m forced to admit.
“So one criminal gang is protecting us from another gang, but they’re not doing a very good job, since I was nearly killed?” Brandon sums it all up from his perspective.
“There’s something else,” I say, cringing because I don’t want to see his reaction.
“What?” he snaps.
“I’m married,” I announce. “To Francisco. Don Corello.”
“You’re what!” Brandon shouts, coming up off the pillow with a burst of strength that surprises me.
“Easy,” I caution, putting my hands on his chest. “It was for the best. This way, if Carlo Andretti attacked us, we’d have the full backing of the Corello family behind us.”
Brandon relaxes again, shaking his head in remorse. “Tell me you didn’t marry the guy just to save us.”
I consider my actions leading up to today. There was a time when I would have said yes, I did marry Francisco for protection. But now things have changed. I have come to rely on him, and to expect his presence in my life. I would miss him terribly if we were separated.
“No,” I say honestly. “I love him.” Finally, coming to terms with my feelings.
Brandon exhales, giving my hand a squeeze. “At least you have that.”
“Francisco thinks it would be best for you and me to go stay with our family in Italy,” I share.
Brandon nods. “I just want to get as far away from this city as possible.”
“Agreed,” I respond, happy something is finally going to plan.
“I just need some time to think about this. Alone,” he says after a pause.
“Oh,” I gasp, realizing what he’s saying and feeling slightly hurt. “Of course. I’ll be here in the house if you need me.”
“Marlena,” Brandon says as I stand up to go.
“Yes?” I respond.
“I’m not okay with this,” he informs me.
I can feel tears beginning to form beneath my eyelids. He’s being so straightforward it scares me. I don’t know what he’s been through or whether he blames me, but I can sense he’s shutting me out.
All the times I visited him in college flash through my mind.
He was always difficult to get along with, but now it seems like something’s changed.
Instead of yelling at me or insulting me, he simply delivered a statement of fact.
And faced with that reality, there’s only one thing I can do to make things right.
I walk out the door with a heavy heart.