Part XVII

Ronan didn’t come home that night, and I spent the empty hours sleepless and anxious, unwilling to disturb Sean’s entire household with a panicky phone call. I paced my apartment thinking, hoping, praying that any minute the door would open and Ronan would come in, weary, but in one piece. I kept telling myself there was no need to worry: that the recording session had probably run longer than anticipated, and he was sound asleep in the Phelans’ guest room.

I could have convinced myself easily enough, had it not been for a nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t like Ronan not to call when his plans changed. There could be exceptions to any rule, of course, but no matter how many times I tried to chalk my worry up to an overactive imagination, the pervasive sense of unease wouldn’t go away.

Bleary-eyed over coffee as the sun rose, wondering how on earth I was going to survive a day at work on no sleep, I switched the radio on for company. Evidently, Ronan had been the last one to use it. Bright morning voices assaulted me with relentlessly cheerful palaver: talk radio. It amused him to listen while he worked on supper, and he often forgot to turn the dial back to the station I preferred.

“Honestly, Ro!” I’d complained recently. “You’re an intelligent man. Why do you waste your time?”

“Curiosity, I guess. Something to listen to while I work in the kitchen.”

“You could listen to music.”

“No, I couldn’t. Music demands too much of my attention, and I’d never get anything done. But this talk radio—well, I may not agree with what the callers have to say most of the time, but it’s amazing to hear how many different opinions there can be on one subject, and how heated the discussions can get. It’s really quite fascinating from a sociological standpoint.”

I shook my head and sighed, and felt grateful that no one had turned him on to Jerry Springer.

Then again, even if someone had told him about Jerry Springer, and even if he was faintly interested, I knew Ronan would never bother watching. He loathed television, and only agreed to sit down in front of it if I’d rented a good movie.

At the moment, thankfully, it was too early in the day for local callers to be doing most of the talking. The airwaves were now the province of radio hosts who dicussed every notion that popped into their heads in excruciating detail. Annoying as that was, I knew that they did stop their idiotic banter long enough to present local news on the half-hour, and I was willing to wait for that.

Even the local news was a bit hard to identify in the midst of the soup of words that passed for it, but finally something did catch my attention. The story in question made sense in an alarming sort of way, and galvanized me into action.

Abandoning my coffee, I ran down the hall and dressed hastily, then brushed my teeth and my hair, grabbed a sweater, and raced out of the house.

The bad feeling intensified and pulsed through me like an electrical current as I hurried to the nearest T station, weaving my way through the first wave of morning commuters.

Soon I was standing in front of a large information desk, pleading with the woman who sat behind it. Finally, almost reluctantly, she told me what I wanted to know.

I thanked her, then sprinted down a long hallway to a row of elevators and darted into the first one that opened. A short ride up, then another maze of hallways, until at last I came to a numbered doorway. I stopped to catch my breath and walked inside, marveling that, despite my being there at such an odd hour, no one had tried to detain me—or guide me.

Well, I wasn’t planning to stay. I would take one quick look for reassurance, and then I would call Sean from the nearest pay phone, and discover that Ronan had indeed spent the night there.

The dark, quiet room contained two beds: one empty, and the other, by the window, curtained off from view. My whole body tingled with raw energy as I approached, took hold of the curtain with a trembling hand, and peeked inside.

At first, I couldn’t see much, as the window blinds were closed most of the way, and the light coming in was dim and dull in accord with the dismal weather.

I moved closer to the bed.

Even before my eyes had fully adjusted, I knew without a doubt who lay there.

I leaned down and called his name softly, but he didn’t respond, so I sank down in the chair by his bed and took account of his injuries. His face was bruised and his left eye blackened, and a painful-looking lump and stitched gash stood out on the left side of his head. Worst of all, both arms were fully wrapped in plaster and propped up on pillows, so his hands and forearms were slightly elevated. His fingers and thumbs were swollen, but not immobilized. At least there was that small mercy: though his arms were broken, his hands and digits had not been harmed. But what further damage lay out of sight, beneath the blankets?

“Oh, Ronan, what happened to you?” I whispered softly, though I knew he couldn’t answer.

I sat by his side for hours, my only conversation being with his nurse. The first time she came into the room, there were questions to answer: who was I, and did I know Ronan’s identity? Then she brought me some paperwork, which I completed to the best of my knowledge. After that, she came into the room every hour or so and attempted to wake him, explaining that it was important to rouse a person with a concussion regularly.

“He’s not unconscious, then?” I asked her.

“No, but he’s very deeply asleep, and it takes a bit of effort to waken him.” She leaned down and shook him gently, then patted the side of his face repeatedly, until finally his eyes flickered open. “You have company, honey,” she said in a loud, bright voice.

Ronan flinched at the sound and closed his eyes.

She shook him again. “Don’t go to sleep on me again, hon. I need to take your temp.”

His eyes opened as she coaxed him to accept the thermometer. Luckily, it was a digital one that registered very quickly, and was out of his mouth in less than a minute. His eyes closed as she made notes on a paper on her clipboard. Next, she pulled back the blanket on the right side and examined his foot, which had an IV needle stuck into it. Then she lifted the blanket further, but my view of what else she might be checking was obscured by her backside. But just over her shoulder, I could see that Ronan’s eyes were open again. Unfocused as his gaze was, I detected more than a faint spark of anger, and knew that if he had the strength to speak, he would protest vehemently.

“What are you doing?” I asked quietly.

“Just checking his IV and his catheter.”

“Catheter?” No wonder he looked so annoyed!

“Yes, until he’s fully awake and also to make sure there’s no bleeding. Sometimes when a person’s been beaten badly, there’s kidney or bladder damage we don’t see until we check the urine. If it’s clear, all’s well, but if there’s blood, there’s a problem. It seems that your friend is fine in that respect.”

“So, the catheter’s really just a routine thing?”

“Yes. As soon as he’s able to stay awake more than a few seconds at a time and can speak for himself, it can come out.” She draped the blanket over him again and tucked it in firmly. “If you have any questions, or need help with anything, either press the call button—it’s right here—or come and get me.”

“All right. Thank you.”

The nurse picked up her clipboard and bustled out, and the room was quiet. Ronan’s eyes were closed again, and as much as I would have liked to talk to him, I knew it was pointless to try and wake him. There would be plenty of time to talk later, after he’d gotten the rest he so badly needed.

I watched his chest rise and fall, and listened to the sound of his soft, slow breathing. Every now and then, I would close my eyes for a few moments, hoping that, when I opened them again, I might find we were home in bed together: that I would waken from this nightmare and find his arms around me, and hear his gentle voice soothing me.

“Must have been one hell of a bad dream, a chuisle. You were really screaming. Hush, now. Hush. It’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

But every time I opened my eyes, the same scene confronted me.

Ronan’s arms wouldn’t be holding me, or anything else, for a long time.

I felt so helpless as I kept vigil over him, wanting desperately to know what had transpired, to leave him in this dreadful condition.

Had he been attacked?

Hit by a car?

Would he even be able to tell me when he finally did awaken?

And all the while, Ronan lay silent and unmoving.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get out of that room and go for a walk. Fresh air would clear my head, and maybe Ronan would wake up for more than a few seconds after I returned. I kissed his cheek gently, told him I loved him and would be back in a bit, then left.

***

I got as far as the lobby, intent on going outside, but before I could make it to the door, I heard a familiar voice calling my name. Turning, I saw Sean Phelan approaching slowly, walking with forearm crutches.

“Sean! Am I ever glad to see you! What are you doing here?”

“Physical therapy. I just finished. And you? Are you all right? You look—” A frown creased his brow. “It’s Ronan, isn’t it? Something’s happened.”

I nodded. “Something, yes, but God only knows what. He never came home last night. I would have called you and asked what was going on, but I didn’t want to wake everyone up, and I also really believed he’d come in any minute. The later it got, the more I realized he wouldn’t. While I was starting to get ready for work, I heard on the radio that there was a John Doe case over here, brought in early this morning, so I came right over and asked to see him. I had a hunch it might be Ronan.”

“And it was?”

I nodded.

“Oh, God. Sarah, how bad is it?”

“Not life-threatening, but bad enough. He has a concussion, and he’s not unconscious, but he doesn’t wake up on his own yet, and when the nurse does manage to get him to respond, it’s only for a few seconds. And—oh, Sean! He’s broken both arms.”

“Both? Are you sure?”

“Well, I haven’t talked to his doctor yet to confirm it, but I don’t think he’d have casts on if they weren’t broken.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Sean muttered. He leaned more heavily on his crutches and sighed. “Look, I want to talk with you some more, but I’ve got to get off my feet. There’s a visitors’ lounge just down the hall. Come sit with me there and tell me as much as you know.”

“All right.” I walked beside him, slowing my pace to match his. He seemed tired, and every step was a struggle.

“They want me to walk as much as possible now, but I think I pushed myself too hard today,” he explained, as he lowered himself on to the sofa. “I feel like I’ve been hung upside-down and beaten.”

“You’re in pain?”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing a dose of Ibuprofen won’t cure.”

“I should let you go home and rest.”

“Maybe, but I’m not going anywhere ’til you’ve told me about Ronan.”

“Until he regains consciousness, there isn’t much to tell you, beyond a catalog of his injuries.”

“That’s a start. You already said he has a concussion.”

“Yes, and a laceration in his scalp, a black eye, facial bruises, and his arms—”

“Jaysus!” Sean exploded. “D’you suppose he got run down by a car?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell me when he wakes up.”

“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you. It takes awhile for a person’s memory to come back after a head injury.”

“Really?”

“Really. I cracked my head once, when I was a boy, and it took a damnably long time to come back to myself afterwards.”

“Did you ever remember how it happened?”

“Eventually, but it was such an awful experience, I pretended I didn’t for a very long time. Ronan may follow that pattern, too, or he may never remember. It’s a tricky thing. You’ll have to be patient with him until he’s ready—and able—to talk about it.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promised. “Sean, what time did he leave you last night?”

“Around two. I offered to call him a cab, and he agreed to that, ’cause I was really tired and he didn’t want me driving. Sarah, you don’t suppose—”

“What?”

“Might he have started walking before the cab got there?”

“Sean, I know he can be naïve at times, but surely not that naïve!”

“One would hope not, but what if he did decide not to take the cab, and to walk through the Public Garden instead? I mean, knowing how he loves the place and isn’t as familiar with the city’s nighttime danger zones as we all are—”

“It’s possible.”

“Do you know where he was found?”

“Oh, Lord. At Boylston and Arlington.”

“He did cut through the Garden, then.”

“It would appear so.”

“I should have insisted on driving him home. I should have made sure he got back safely, but I was so tired, and my legs were numb from sitting at the mixing board so long. I could hardly walk by the time we went downstairs.”

“It’s not your fault, Sean. Ronan should have had the sense to wait for that cab, or to crash at your place for the night.”

“Y’know, I did offer him that option, but he said he didn’t want to disturb Mary and Rory. Damn! Are you going back to him soon?”

“Yes. I want to be with him when he wakes up.”

“May I go with you? I’d like to see him.”

“Sure.”

Sean placed his crutches and pulled himself up, wincing. “Do you have any Ibuprofen on you?”

“In my bag, yes.” I rummaged and found the bottle. “How many?”

“Four, if you can spare them.”

I counted out the pills.

He accepted them, popped them into his mouth, and swallowed hard a few times.

“Are you all right, Sean?”

“I’ll be fine if I can stop at the water fountain on the way to the elevator.”

We walked together. Sean seemed even wearier now, his right foot dragging as we crossed the lobby to the elevators. He stopped for his drink of water while I pushed the call button.

After what seemed an eternity, we were finally settled in Ronan’s room, Sean seated in the bedside chair while I perched on the window sill.

“So, what do you think?”

“This was no hit-and-run car-versus-pedestrian accident, Sarah. The poor man’s been thrashed, and from the looks of him I doubt it was a fair fight.” Sean sighed and shook his head. “If he’d given his attackers what they wanted, they probably wouldn’t have beaten him so badly. A blow to the head to knock him out would have sufficed. Why would he have provoked—?”

Then it dawned on me, and on Sean, and we answered the question simultaneously. “His guitar!”

Blind rage and an overwhelming desire for revenge filled my heart. “Oh, Sean! Whoever did this to him—oh, I could just kill them!”

“I understand how you feel, ’cause I’m feeling like that, too, but it’s a waste of time thinking about vengeance. The scum of the earth who do things like this have a way of disappearing. Most likely, they’ll never be found, so just forget about them. What we really need to do from now on is stay focused on Ronan. He’ll need us to be strong, to help him get through this.”

“Yes.”

Sean looked even sadder than I felt, and when he finally spoke, his voice sounded pained and bitter. “They probably didn’t have the vaguest notion of what a precious thing they were shattering, and even if they had—well, all that matters to people like that is a clear path to a quick buck. Dear God, what a world we live in!”

At the time, I believed Sean was speaking of the damage done to Ronan’s arms, and what impact it might have on his music-making, but later, as Ronan struggled to heal, I realized that Sean’s words had a deeper, more ominous meaning.

Ronan’s bruises would fade in due course, and his broken bones would mend, but what of his wounded spirit? And how did one even begin to heal an injury that no test or examination could detect?

***

C.P. Warner
© 18 August 2007

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