I Swear That She's the One

I jumped out of the cab as soon as it pulled up to the curb, and left John to deal with the fare. My backpack hit my back with every step I took, and I got quite a few weird looks as I power walked through to the main desk.

“What room is Jackson Gomez in?” I asked hurriedly, gripping the counter.

“Are you family?” the older lady asked taking in my appearance.

I had dark circles under my eyes, which were also bloodshot from all of my crying. My hair was curly and untamed, seeing as I had left in a rush right after taking a shower. My clothes were wrinkled from being worn on the plane, and the tears in my knees didn’t help.

“He’s my little brother,” I said nodding, “I need to see him.”

“He’s in room ICU room 9,” she said reading the computer screen, “It’s on the second floor, just take a right when you get off of the elevators.”

I muttered a thank you, before walking to the elevators and being caught up with by John. He followed me wordlessly to the elevators, and we rode up in silence.

It had been a little over 12 hours since I had gotten the phone call that made us leave the tour.

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I walked into the greenroom, still drying my hair with the venue’s towel. We had gotten off stage about 15 minutes ago, and I was the first one to take advantage of the shower in the bathroom.

“Your phone’s been going off for the last 10 minutes,” Brian said from his spot on the couch, “It’s all been phone calls too.”

I was about to respond when it started ringing in my hands. ‘MOM’ flashed across the screen, and I hesitated over the call button, seeing as I hadn’t talked to her since I left, and gave in finally.

“Hello?” I asked plopping into the large armchair.

“Stephen, sweetie, something terrible has happened,” she said through tears and urgency, “Jackson was hit by a drunk driver. He’s being rushed to the hospital right now. He was barely breathing when they put him on the stretcher.”

“No,” I said barely above a whisper, “Mom, please tell me this is a cruel joke. I need to talk to Jackson, right now.”

“I could never joke about this,” she said letting out a sob.

“I’m coming home,” I said standing up and pacing, “I have to be there for him. He’s my baby brother. I can’t lose him, I need him. He need’s me.”

“Please tell John,” she said cutting into my rant, “And you guys can’t cancel the tour.”

“They can play acoustic,” I said quickly, “I’ll be on the first flight home.”

“Just go straight to the hospital,” she said sniffling, “I love you Stephen, tell John I love him too.”

“I love you too, Mom,” I said before hanging up and running my hands through my hair.

“You okay, bro?” John asked as he walked into the green room.

I looked up at him, knowing my eyes were brimmed with tears, and shook my head.

“Jackson’s in the hospital,” I said with a shaky voice, “He was hit by a drunk driver.”

John stared at me in disbelief, and shook his head slowly as tears built up in his eyes. I walked over to him, and hugged him, feeling his body rack with sobs. I let the tears silently slip down my cheeks, and knew we had to tell the band.

“I’m leaving right now,” I said as John and I ended the hug, “I have to be there for Jackson. He’s my baby brother, he needs me.”

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As the elevator came to a stop, I pushed past the other people in it to get onto the floor quickly. I heard John mutter them a quick apology before his flip-flops clacked against the cold tiles behind me. When we made it to the nurse station, I waited impatiently for the middle-aged nurse to get off of the phone.

“Can, I help you, sir?” she asked adjusting her stethescope.

“I’m here to see Jackson Gomez. He’s in room 9 from what I’ve been told,” I said adjusting my backpack.

“He already has two people with him,” she said with a sad look, “I can’t let anyone else in with him.”

“Please, you have to let me see him,” I said in a pleading tone, “I haven’t seen him in two weeks, and I got here as fast as I could. I had to fly all the way out from New Jersey at 2 am this morning. I need to see my baby brother.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the doors leading to the ICU opening. My head snapped towards it, and I saw my mom rushing to give John a hug. I shuffled over to join them, and felt more tears well up in my eyes as the three of us stood in an embrace. I kept myself composed, knowing I needed to be strong for my Mom, and tried my hardest to blink back the tears.

“I’m sorry for leaving like I did,” I said quietly to my mom, “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” she said with a kiss to my cheek, “I know you’re itching to see him, give me your backpack and go in. Dad’s in there with him.”

I uttered a small thanks, and handed her my heavy backpack before pushing through the saloon style doors. I walked down the hallway, getting chills from all of the beeping machines, and stopped in front of 9. I went in, and saw my dad sitting in a chair next to Jackson’s bed, and lost in a glance. I cleared my throat to get his attention, and he dropped Jackson’s hand to come embrace me in a hug.

I hugged him back tightly, and as he let go, I took a look at Jackson. He had a breathing tube in his throat, and an oxygen tube into his nose. His right arm was in a cast, and he had gauze around the top of his head. His exposed skin had bruises and cuts everywhere, and I felt another lump growing in my throat.

“What exactly happened?” I asked as I took my Dad’s spot in the chair.

“He was riding his bike with his friend Curtis, and a drunk driver jumped the curve and hit him,” he said with a clearing of his throat, “A bystander called 911, and your mother and I came out when we heard the sirens.”

“That bastard better be in jail,” I said with a growl to my voice.

“He was arrested on the scene,” my Dad said and I let out a sigh, “I’m going to let John come in here. It means a lot that you two left the tour to come see him.”

“Family always comes first,” I said with a crooked smile.

He nodded, and in minutes, John was sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Neither of us spoke, and the only sound was coming from the various machines. I held Jackson’s small, bruised hand in my own, and stared at his face. I just wanted him to open his eyes, but from the look of his injuries, it would be a while before it happened.