Free Southampton Spectacular by M. C. Soutter

spoke.
    “Austin, you will not move.” She pointed at the front desk man without looking up. “Mr. Bindle, you will call 911 for an ambulance.” She glanced at him to be sure he was doing what she asked, but the phone was already at his ear. She looked back down at Austin, who was still holding his hand underneath Peter’s head as if stray bone fragments might start crumbling off at any minute. “Austin,” she said, as gently as she could manage, “you will stop trying to collect drops and pieces of my father. Take your hand away. Just make sure he doesn’t hit his head again.”
    Austin let his hand fall to his side, where it dripped a watered-down mixture of pool chlorine and blood onto the bricks below.
    “We’ll wait together,” Devon said.
    They waited, but it seemed to take forever before they heard the sirens.
     

Non Compos Mentis
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    1
     
    Devon’s father was not dead. But the doctors were also not able to say – or even guess – when or whether he would wake up. Devon and her mother sat and waited helplessly, miserably, as Peter was wheeled into surgery, out of surgery, back in and back out, until they could not keep track of which direction he was going. Time sped up and slowed down in unpredictable halts and lunges. They drifted in and out of sleep without being aware of which half of the day they were living in, light or dark, and they ate poorly from the vending machines. They were forced to endure a stream of poker-faced doctors coming and explaining to them the situation after each surgery, every doctor speaking in a way that made no sense. The explanations were couched in words with Latin roots, hidden by surgical terms of art. Cynthia Hall remained uncommonly quiet, and Devon was left to prod for an executive summary.
    “Which means…?” she would say.
    The doctor would shrug apologetically, and repeat what he or she had said the first time around, about intracranial pressure and the possibility of complications stemming from trauma to the occipital lobe, the specific risks associated with procedures in proximity to the parietal and temporal lobes, and the statistical probabilities surrounding any neurological deficits resulting from such an event, and did that make it more clear?
    Devon would sigh, and say no, it did not at all, and turn away, leading her mother back to the emergency room chairs that were cold and stiff and reeking of shock and despair.
    After what seemed like a week of waiting, they were put into a private room with Peter. His head was so densely wrapped in white gauze and bandages that Devon could hardly believe the bandages themselves would not cause extra pressure. But her father seemed to be resting comfortably, or as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances. She hoped that if he were in pain, he would make some sound.
    Or give some sign.
    She found herself wondering how he could possibly not be in pain. In constant, body-wracking pain. This thought made her want to fall to the ground, to cry and wait for her mother to comfort her, but this was obviously not an option. She shook the thought away and pressed one finger to the corner of her eye. Pressed hard, until the pressure made her wince, and her head cleared.
    Devon was worried almost as much about her mother as her father. Cynthia Hall had never, ever stayed quiet for this long. Cards and letters and flowers and boxes, actual boxes of food and best wishes, began arriving. They were ferried in quietly and furtively during the short window of visiting hours by Nina and Florin and James and Barnes and even a few times by Austin; each of them glanced briefly at Peter Hall’s still form before turning quickly away with a nod and an expression of support. Then they hurried silently back out the door. Devon acknowledged each of these deliveries with what she hoped was a grateful look, but she did not invite interaction. She took out the letters one by one,