“Ike, I’m sorry,” Nora said. “But this is what your mother wants, and right now, we’re not in a position to contest it.”
Isaac took a deep breath, a faraway expression in his eyes. “Why are they listening to her?”
“Because right now, she still has the right to decide where you guys are going to go, and for some reason. . .” Nora studied the ugly pastel pattern of the curtain next to the bed, the chalky geometric shapes blurring through a mist of unshed tears. “She doesn’t want you guys to stay with Dan and me anymore.”
“She didn’t say why?” Isaac asked, slowly.
“She didn’t say why,” Nora told him. She looked at her watch. “They only gave me five minutes, honey.”
Isaac tried to smile. “Why? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
Nora smiled back, in spite of herself. “We’re going to try to overturn the decision, Ike, but that might... we might not be able to do it. Especially considering the fact that your mother wants to turn her parental rights over to your aunt.”
Isaac shook his head. “My aunt’s in jail.”
“I think this is a different aunt,” Nora said. “Your mother’s aunt.”
Isaac sighed. “Maybe Mom has an aunt, she never told me.”
“But we’re not allowed to call you,” Nora told Isaac, “or have any contact. At least not while custody is being decided.”
“And they won’t pick you?” Isaac knew the answer already, but he was hoping that Nora might surprise him.
“I’m sorry, honey.” Nora nodded to the nurse who had peered her had around the doorway, signaling that time was up. “I’m really sorry. It’s going to be all right, though.”
“Yeah,” Isaac agreed, halfheartedly. “Yeah, it’ll be okay. Don’t worry about us.”
After Nora had gone, he studied the dim hospital room for what seemed like the thousandth time. It was ugly; dingy white walls and too much peach and light green. On the other side of the curtain there was another bed, but he didn’t have a roommate. It might make it a little less empty in here if he did. There was always a lot of noise in the hospital, but it wasn’t the kind of noise Isaac was used to. He’d give anything to hear the sound of a Spanish radio station blaring through the walls, just so he could close his eyes and pretend he was at home for a little while. It wouldn’t be the same, though. He knew that. For a moment, Isaac fought back tears. He’d made up his mind that he wouldn’t cry in the hospital, but sometimes it was hard not to.
“Well, here we have a nine year old male. . .” The door burst open and someone switched the overhead light on. Isaac blinked. It was too bright in here.
A red-haired doctor with bushy eyebrows and sparse eyelashes strode purposefully into the room, a group of lab-coat clad medical students traipsing dutifully behind him. “As you can see, a nine year old male who has recently undergone abdominal surgery after massive blunt and penetrating trauma. . . several broken ribs, a pneumothorax. . .”
All the doctor’s words began slurring together as Isaac stopped listening to him. All the medical students were the same. Nora told him to ignore them, but it was hard. . . sometimes you wanted to tell them to shut up and go bother someone else. They looked at you as if you had gotten hurt on purpose, so that they could learn from your injuries.
At least, Isaac thought, the doctor in charge could excuse himself before he pulled back the blankets. And he could be more careful about the IVs.
“As you can see, the patient is undergoing a procedure called peritoneal lavage, in which a tube is inserted to aspirate the contents of the abdominal cavity, in order to determine whether there is internal bleeding or excessive fluid loss,” the doctor explained. “It is a relatively painless procedure. . .”
Okay. That was it. Isaac couldn’t pretend not to listen anymore. “Excuse me,” he said, raising his voice when the doctor didn’t respond. “Excuse me?”
“Yes?” the doctor asked, more than a little aggravated at the interruption.
“Have you ever had someone cut your stomach open and stick a big tube in it?” Isaac asked. “While you were awake?”
“No,” the doctor said. “And you haven’t, either. . . anesthesia is used during the procedure.”
Isaac raised his eyebrows. “I just got a local. . . I was awake.” He’d become aquainted with a lot of medical terms in the past few days; it was nice to be able to use one.
“Your point?” the doctor checked his watch.
“Well, it does hurt,” Isaac informed him. “It isn’t a relatively painless procedure.”
A few of the medical students tittered. The doctor’s skin flushed until it matched the color of his hair. “Point taken,” he said.
“I mean, just so you’d know, I thought I’d tell you,” Isaac went on. “I mean, since nobody did it to you before.”
“Well. . . thank you,” the doctor sputtered.
“Because if you were going to do it to somebody, and you told them it wouldn’t hurt and it did, they might think you screwed up,” Isaac went on, almost cheerfully. “And then they might sue you for malpractice.”
The medical students fell apart when they heard that one, covering their mouths with their hands and letting out muffled snorts. Isaac grinned. He was tired, his stomach hurt more than ever and he was worried about what might happen to his brothers within the next few days, but he felt pretty good, for a moment. Especially when, chastened, the doctor extended his hand. “Thanks for the advice,” he said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Isaac held up his own hand, still bandaged. “I can’t really shake hands,” he said, “but if you ever want to hear more about what hurts and what doesn’t, you can ask me.”
If any of the medical students had gained back their composture, they lost it now.
“I’ll do that. . .” the doctor promised, flipping through the chart in hopes of putting a name on the patient in front of him.
“Isaac,” Isaac supplied.
“Isaac,” the doctor repeated. “I’m Dr. Matt Greene. . . I’ll do that.”
“Thanks, Matt,” Isaac chirped, unable to resist the temptation of calling a doctor by his first name.
There was a loud clatter as Dr. Greene’s clipboard hit the floor, while he let out a loud guffaw. “Keep that up, kid,” he said. “You’ll get out of here all right.”
Isaac sighed. “I hope so.”