CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

Dad’s eyes land on me first, then Hamish, and then Arabella, before they land back on me.  A second later, Mum appears, and she’s crying.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice high-pitched and hysterical.  Instinctively I try to manoeuvre myself out of bed, but my flabby stomach protests.  I guess the muscles there figure they’ve done enough work for one day.

“Oh, god.”  The sob that tears free from my mother’s throat has my stomach constricting.  She and Dad move to my bedside, Mum taking the chair and Dad standing beside her, resting a solid, tanned palm on her shoulder.

“Fuck,” Dad breathes as his face turns from horrified to relieved.  “Fuck.  Don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.”

“Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?!” I shriek, ignoring the post-labour cramps in my stomach.

“He came out of the ward, walked right down the hall toward us, looked at your father, and nodded his head.  Then he turned to leave,” Mum pauses to sob, her hand covering her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. 

“He was just about to go through the automatic doors,” Dad adds, his voice rough as sandpaper.  “Then pop, pop, pop.  Three shots and he went down like a bag of shit.”

“It all happened so fast.  Your father tried to help him, but there was so much blood.  God, the blood.  I screamed for help and doctors, nurses, and security came running.  But it was too late.  There was just so much blood.”

Even though I knew the answer, I still had to ask.  “Who was it?  Whose blood is on your shirt, Dad?”

“Dek’s,” he replies quietly.

“Is he going to be okay?”

Dad doesn’t respond with words.  He just gives me one small shake of his head.

“Oh, my god,” I gasp.

“The entire hospital is in lockdown.  No one’s allowed in or out.  We broke away from the police to check on you guys, but we have to go back down and give our statements,” Dad says.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Hamish hisses.

“They said someone would be by your room to let you know what is happening,” Mum chokes out.  “They won’t give details, but they’ll let you know you won’t be able to leave right now,” she adds to Hamish.

He nods.  “Had no plans of leaving anytime soon, anyhow.”

“In broad daylight,” Mum murmurs.  “We didn’t even see who did it.  It just happened so fast.”

Arabella starts squawking again, in earnest this time, so I know she’s hungry and needs changing.  Hamish hands her to me, but not before kissing her forehead and inhaling her sweet newborn smell.

“We better get back to the police,” Dad says.  “We’ll come back when we’re done talking to them and fill you in.”

I nod and swipe away the stray tears rolling down my cheeks.  My daughter would have probably never known Dek anyhow, but now the possibility has been completely eradicated, and it kills me knowing she’ll never get a choice in the matter.  I don’t even have a picture to show her when she’s older.

Hamish rubs my back in soothing strokes while I quickly—albeit awkwardly—change Arabella’s nappy.  I’ve changed babies before, but none who were this newborn.  Once she’s dry and clean, Hamish fluffs the pillows up behind me and I get comfortable before trying to attach her to my boob.  We’re both new to this and it takes a little bit for her to get the right latch and for me to hold her in the correct position.  We get there in the end, and I relax my shoulders like I read in a pregnancy and birth magazine.

“Oh shit.  Aubree’s coming by today.  Can you hand me my phone?” I ask Hamish.  Right as the words leave my mouth, my phone starts ringing and Hamish digs it out of my handbag. 

“Speak of the devil,” he mutters before answering.  He turns the phone on speaker and holds it close to me since I haven’t quite mastered breastfeeding multitasking.

“Hey, I’m at the hospital.  What the fuck’s going on?  There are cops, news reporters, and people everywhere. I can’t come inside.  Are you okay?  Was there a terrorist attack?  They won’t tell me anything except to say I can’t visit with you and it’s an ongoing investigation.  There’s police tape everywhere.”  Her voice is shrill with hysteria by the time she is finished.

“I’m okay.  We’re all okay.  I… there,” the words won’t leave my constricted throat and I look to Hamish through tear-filled eyes.

“You’re on speaker, Aubree.  Oli’s breastfeeding Arabella.  There was an incident earlier and the hospital is on lockdown.”

“What kind of incident?” she asks cautiously.

Hamish clears his throat, hesitation vibrating off him.  “A shooting,” he says quietly, his eyes not moving from me, gauging my reaction.  “It was Dek.”

“Oh, my god,” Aubree breathes.  “Dek shot someone?  At the hospital?” she shrieks.

“No,” I choke out.  “Dek was shot by someone.  He’s… dead.”  The words feel like lead coming from my dry mouth and I quickly grasp the glass of icy water on my hospital tray, gulping it down as my daughter obliviously feeds.

“Oh, Oli,” Aubree whimpers.  “I’m so sorry, babe.  I wish these bastards would let me in so I could give you a hug.”

“It’s okay.  Hamish is here, and Mum and Dad are nearby, too.  They have to give statements to the police.  Why don’t you come back tomorrow?  Hopefully things will be settled down by then.”

“Okay, babe.  You need anything, you call me.”

“Always.  Love you.”

“Love you, too.  And give that baby girl a kiss from her favourite aunty Aubs.”

I laugh, even though the sound is tinged with sadness.  “I will.”