Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Temperature of one hundred three and elevated blood pressure.
Crap.
I don’t know if it was the fall out of bed, or ripping the stitches, or what, but I don’t like it. In fact, it worries the hell out of me.
I’m not a doctor. I have no idea what that bullet hit inside Gio. And if something’s infected, all the progress he made this week will be lost. He could easily still die.
“Junior,” I call from Gio’s room.
He must hear the fear in my voice because he shows up immediately. “What is it?”
“Gio spiked a fever. I’m going to need a new antibiotic—see if you can get Keflex. Or clindamycin, but that’s going to give him the shits. And salty soup.”
He studies my face, and must read how serious this is because he’s all business. “I’ll go now. Anything else?”
I shake my head, going to the bathroom to get warm wash clothes to try to cool Gio down.
Junior leaves. It occurs to me that it’s the first time he’s left me alone, but that’s so irrelevant right now. Either he trusts me, or he figures this is an emergency and he has no other choice. It doesn’t matter—I have bigger things to worry about.
I give Gio a sponge bath with warm water, then sit beside him. I’ve lost patients before. There are times it breaks my heart, no matter how hard you try to remove yourself from it.
But losing Gio is not an option.
There’s no way I could watch that happen. No way I could witness Junior’s pain.
I get Gio to swallow a little Tylenol and run the possibilities in my head. The fact that his body was healing and took a turn for the worse concerns me. It will be at least twenty-four hours before I know if a new antibiotic works. In that time, he could go septic.
Shit.
Maybe I should talk Junior into taking him to a hospital. Although they would probably do the same thing I’m doing here.
I pick up my phone. There’s one person I ask for help in cases where it seems like patients need something beyond medicine.
My mom.
And she doesn’t go into work until this afternoon.
I call her up and speak to her in Spanish. “Mamá, I need some help. My patient had a fall yesterday that reversed his recovery. Do you think you could come and do some of your Reiki magic on him?”
“Of course, mija.” That’s the amazing thing about my mom. If someone calls for her services, she never refuses. She believes it’s a gift from God that she’s obligated to share wherever it’s needed.
“I’m at a house in Oak Park. Can you come this morning before your shift?”
“Yes,” my mother says slowly. “Yes, I can come. What’s the address?”
“I’ll text it to you. Can you come right now?”
“Yes, I’ll come right now,” my mom says, surprised, like she doesn’t know why I’m asking again.
“Okay, I love you, Mom. See you in a bit.”
“Hasta luego, bye.” My mom says in her customary Spanglish.
Relief pours through me. I’ve seen my mom perform miracles before. Quiet ones. The kind that people don’t even notice because it’s not in their frame of reference to attribute a sudden turnaround to a hands-on energy healing. And my mom doesn’t care if they acknowledge it or not. She doesn’t get attached to results. She just gives and says she gets something out of the act of giving. She receives at the same time, and that’s enough.
I pace around the house, my stomach in knots. Junior left one of his goons here—one of the guys who grabbed me from the parking lot, but I think I can handle him. Junior said he was here for protection, not to keep me prisoner. I’m just hoping my mom gets in and out before Junior shows up, because I know he’s going to freak.
I consider texting him, but I sort of chicken out.
This situation is serious, and I had to make a tough decision. My mom won’t pay attention to how Gio got his wound or why I’m treating him at home. She may put it together, but it won’t even matter to her.
She’s just not like that. She sort of operates in a bubble of kindness, my mother.
She shows up forty minutes later and I rush down the stairs to let her in.
“It’s okay, it’s my mom. She’s here to help,” I tell the bodyguard, who has drawn a pistol.
He gives me a doubtful look. “Junior know about this?”
“Of course he does,” I snap, using my customary bluster to get the guy to back off. Fortunately, he does. He opens the door a crack and when he sees it’s my mom, puts the gun away.
She envelops me in a warm hug, kissing both my cheeks.
“Here he is.” I lead her upstairs, wringing my hands. “He’ll go on a new antibiotic today, but I don’t like the way he’s burning up.”