The Good Son Carolyn Mills (best english novels to read txt) 📖

she must have already had a chance to digest this information. The doctor is still talking, still explaining. He’s saying something about a medically induced coma, giving Richard’s brain a chance to heal. Then he starts going on about bleeding and swelling, severe trauma. His words wash over me, a meaningless spray of information.

Brenda is crying and I realize she has only come here, to the waiting room, so that I am not alone to hear this news. I finally stand up and move closer to her, giving her an awkward hug, more of a sideways embrace. The doctor continues talking. “His vitals are strong. If the swelling goes down, there’s a very good chance he will survive.” He pauses. “But brain injuries are unpredictable. He could come out of this with no side-effects or he could have permanent damage. You need to be prepared for many different eventualities.”

“Of course, of course,” Brenda is saying.

“So you think he’s going to live?” I say, and a small spark of hope ignites somewhere deep in my chest. I have often wished violent deaths upon my brother, but obviously I never really meant it. Only I didn’t know I didn’t mean it, until this moment now, when I am flooded with relief.

“If the swelling continues to decrease, his odds get better and better.”

I nod. Brenda follows the doctor back into the ICU and I go back to my plastic chair where I lean against the wall and close my eyes. I will stay the night, I tell myself and, in the morning, I will go back to Dunford to pick up Mom and bring her here, so she can be with her son.

I sit in that chair for hours, slipping in and out of consciousness. No one comes to talk to me, no one checks on me, which makes me think nothing has changed. Not for the better, but not for the worse, either.

As I’m rubbing my eyes, my attention is snagged by the now-familiar image of Amy Nessor’s face on the silent TV. I struggle to read the ticker at the bottom of the screen. There’s been an arrest. My gut clenches. The picture of Amy’s face is replaced by grainy footage of a man in an orange jumpsuit being led somewhere. I squint at the screen. Whoever it is, he’s too old to be Darius. I look around the waiting room, searching for a remote control or some way to turn on the sound. I need to hear what they’re saying about this guy in the jumpsuit. Who is he? What does he have to do with Amy’s case?

The ticker continues to spit out the details: Marcus Daley, formerly of Port Sitsworth, confessed to the murder of Amy Nessor, whose body was discovered almost 30 years ago less than 900 yards from her house in Dunford. Daley, an inmate at Collins Bay Penitentiary, was two weeks away from being released after serving a 12-year sentence for armed robbery.

My thoughts fly off in a hundred different directions. I am trying to connect this man to Darius and Ricky, trying to make sense of the words ticking across the screen, but before I can even fully register what I just read, the news switches to footage of an earthquake in Nepal. Four hundred missing, the ticker types out. I don’t see what comes next because I am on my feet, staggering down the hall, away from the ICU doors. I can’t tell if I’m feverish or flat-out delirious. I make my way back to the same doors I came in on the main level of the hospital.

“I’m coming back,” I say to the women at the desk. “I just have to get my mom — my brother, he’s in the ICU. I’m not allowed to see him, but if there’s any change — will you call me if there’s any change? His wife is with him. Can you tell her where I am if she’s looking for me? There’s a phone up there. I was supposed to use the phone to tell them.”

I know I’m not making any sense, but one of the women calmly asks for my number and writes in on a blue Post-it Note, promising to relay my garbled message to the nurses in ICU.

“I’m coming back,” I repeat.

I step outside to call a cab from my cracked phone. The morning is lit by a weak, watery light, as if the sun can’t be bothered to shine properly while Richard lies on a hospital bed, unconscious. It’s too cold to wait for my taxi outside, so I turn to go back in and as I pass through the glass doors, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I look like an addict, coming in off the streets. Desperate and hungry and haunted.

I’m leaving my brother behind, and as the full weariness of a night without sleep hits me, that one small spark of hope I felt at the doctor’s words balloons into something bigger as it melds with the news about Amy’s case.

Marcus Daley. Port Sitsworth.

I nod off during the ride back to Dunford, and as soon as I arrive at Mom’s house, I can see by her face that she knows something is wrong. I tell her about Richard’s accident, emphasizing the more promising details from the doctor’s prognosis.

“Was he coming to Dunford?” she asks. “What was he doing on Snyder’s Road?” She is surprisingly calm. I watch her closely, alert for any signs of heart trouble.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what he was doing.” But the last words I spoke to my brother are ringing in my ears. I accused him of killing our neighbour. Was he coming to see me? To set me straight? Why did Brenda kick him out, if that wasn’t what he just confessed? Then the truth hits me like a two-by-four to the face: he told her about Dee Dee.

“You need to have a shower,” Mom says. “We can’t go