a bad backstage moment

This bit occurs about halfway through the book. Remember "Quin's audioblog" a few posts ago? This comes right before it. There's another scene I want to squeeze in between them, too, but I ran out of time to do it tonight. I'll try to catch up this weekend.

It's been a while since I watched ER, so please forgive — or better yet, correct — the medical errors, eh?

Normally I'm the first one backstage at intermission, shining my mini-flashlight for the performers in case there's no house crew there to guide them safely around the inevitable backstage obstacles. That night, however, an audience member snagged me by the elbow when I was about three quarters of the way down the aisle — not just snagged, but grabbed. I don't like being grabbed, but I paused for a few moments of make-nice. Singers swept past me on their way offstage.

The crash and thump and shout didn't register over the crowd noise at first. It could have been feet stomping the bleachers and fans hollering for more. But as I rounded the corner into the dim alley to the green room, I saw that this wasn't the case.

Quin Kelly lay sprawled on the concrete floor, blood pooling beneath his head.

His brothers were stopped dead, staring. I shoved past them to drop to my knees beside Quin, already fumbling for my phone. I thrust it into the nearest hand — Mason's — and told him to call 911. I yanked the flashlight out of my pocket and shone it on the scene

Quin was unconscious but breathing normally, bleeding steadily from a jagged gash near his hairline on the right side of his forehead. Running my hands over his scalp, I found no other cuts, just a growing goose egg where his head had hit the floor. I whipped the pocket square out of his breast pocket and folded it into a compress. His eyelids fluttered when I clamped down on the wound with pressure, but they did not open.

I glanced up at the half-circle of faces staring down at us.

"Blankets. Towels. Something to keep him warm," I said. "Check the green room." Someone hurried away.

Quill knelt on Quin's other side, repeating his brother's name in a strangled voice. I grabbed his hovering hand and pressed it in place of mine.

"Hold this tight. Tighter," I instructed. "Keep his head still."

I straightened Quin's arms and legs and loosened his tie. The pulse at his throat was strong.

"Kielle?" A tentative voice behind me inquired. Before I could shush it, Sarah gasped.

"Oh my god!"

I glanced over my shoulder to follow her gaze, then did a double take. Phillip slouched against a wall in shadow, staring in dumb fascination at his left arm. His sleeve glistened wetly. A dark puddle was spreading at his feet.

Quentin reeled against Mace, almost knocking the phone from his hand. Bill stepped in to peel his nephew away and lower him in a heap. Not to be outdone, Nancy announced that she was about to faint, then did so with great precision into Jimmy's waiting arms.

I bolted to my feet, to Phillip's side, leading with the light. I got my first clear look at Phillip's arm as he sank slowly onto his heels. His jacket and shirtsleeve, and the flesh beneath, were ripped from elbow to wrist. Blood welled with every heartbeat, suggesting that a major vessel had been nicked — but not, I hoped, severed.

Shy arrived with some towels from the bathroom, surveyed the scene, and went back for more.

"Kielle?" Phillip's voice was distant, dreamy. "I'm kind of dizzy." He started to list to one side. As I tried to keep him from tipping into the small lake he was creating, he threw his injured arm around me in an effort to rise. I felt liquid heat seep through my shirt. It took me a moment to calm him again. Mace came over to brace his shoulder while I peeled away his ruined sleeves and wrapped a towel around his forearm.

Less than two minutes had passed.

Mace reported that an ambulance was on its way and dispatched and dispatched a stagehand — where had he been a minute ago? — to guide the EMTs to us. Voices clamored, praying, soothing, asking what happened, what happened, is he going to be all right, what happened?

I swept the area with my eyes, recording the whole scene click click click. I'd have time to analyze it later.

Quin began to stir. I called to Quill to keep him quiet. He blinked away tears of relief, causing his disoriented brother to complain that it was raining.

Nancy showed signs of coming around, too, prompting Jimmy to whisk her away to the dressing room. Quentin, glassy-eyed with shock himself, made his unsteady way over to clasp Quin's hand and pray. We stayed like that for another few minutes until we heard the approaching siren and the clattering of metal wheels in the hall.

The EMTs took over with brisk efficiency, shooing us all out of their way. After quickly evaluating the injuries, they strapped Quin to a backboard. Phillip, no longer able to stand, was likewise scooped onto a gurney.

We all followed them up the corridor toward the waiting ambulance. Was anyone coming with the victims? the lead paramedic asked. The Kellys both stepped forward, but Bill barred their way.

"Kielle will go," he decreed. "You two stay." He muffled their protests with "It'll be fine" and "The show must go on," but I could see they weren't buying it.

Mason tossed me my phone as the ambulance doors swung inward. "I'll call Darius!" I shouted just before they clanged shut.

The ride to the hospital, though brief, was long enough to let me start worrying. Quin remained disoriented, mumbling nonsense, and Phillip continued to lose blood, albeit at a slower rate than before. I could not tell how seriously either of them was hurt, and the EMTs were careful not to make any definitive statements. Unreassured, I worked on calming my breathing.

We burst into the emergency room with minor fanfare, me trotting between the gurneys trying to comfort both men at once. A nurse stopped me outside the treatment area and thrust two clipboards into my hands.

"Your friends are in good hands. You can stay with them as long as you're not in the way," she said. "You can help by filling in the paperwork and making any phone calls that need to be made." Then she moved on, and for a few minutes, the three of us were alone in the swirl of ER activity.

The sterile, bustling atmosphere did not suit Phillip. Eyes wide, he murmured, "No. No I have to go. 'Scuse me." He swung his legs over the side of the bed opposite me and slid out before I could stop him. Weakened by shock and blood loss, however, he went down like a felled tree. I dropped the clipboards and hollered for help. He struggled against me, dislodging the dressing on his arm.

Fortunately, professionals arrived quickly and restored Phillip to his bed. Another team arrived to tend to Quin who, restrained and unable to see what was going on, was growing agitated as well. A third orderly tried to guide me to a separate treatment bay until I finally convinced him that the blood on my face and hands was not my own.

I sighed and backed off, trying to listen to all the conversation at once. Quin's doctor ordered head and neck X-rays, and he was wheeled back out again. Phillip's attendant snipped shreds of fabric away from his inner arm to expose the deep, ugly cut. It was worse than I'd thought. Phillip's face was dead white, turned resolutely away from the sight.

After giving the doctor, whose tag read Nielsen, a chance to inspect the wound, I edged close enough to ask about nerve damage.

"I don't think so," Nielsen said as he began to clean the cut. "There's insult to muscle and tissue, and a vein got nicked, but not badly. But I don't see any evidence of nerve damage. What happened, anyway?"

"I don't know yet. I wasn't there — they were ahead of me in the dark and I think something fell on them." I recalled my mental snapshots of the backstage area: bottom-weighted light stands arrayed like sentries on either side of the entrance, and one lying on the floor. I described to Nielsen how I thought one of the light trees had somehow fallen over, bouncing off Quin onto Phillip. The poles were studded with protruding metal loops for the attaching of lights; it was probably one of those that had nailed Phillip.

The thought of a heavy metal post descending on Quin's skull made me even more worried for him. But he was, as I'd been told, in good hands, so I pulled my attention back to Phillip for the moment.

"Will he still be able to play the piano?" I asked Nielsen.

The young physician eyed me warily. He'd probably heard the punchline — "Great! I couldn't play before!" — more times than he could count.

"No joke," I said. "Seriously. He's a professional musician. Will he still be able to play?"

Relaxing, Nielsen said he thought Phillip would make a full recovery. His arm would be stiff and sore for a while, but if he took it easy, he should recover full mobility. Phillip, consciousness fading, registered less relief than I did.

My phone rang, and I grabbed for it. When I finally got my hand on it, caller ID revealed Quentin's name.

"How is he? They?" he demanded without preamble.

"Okay. They're okay. Quin is getting his skull X-rayed and Phillip is having his arm cleaned up." I stepped out of the way of a nurse adjusting the IV that was replacing the fluids he'd lost.

Quentin sighed, "Thank god. Thank god. Where are you?"

"Still in the emergency room."

"I mean which hospital?"

"Oh." I glanced down at the neglected forms on the clipboards I still held. "Regions North."

"We're on our way," he said, and disconnected.

On their way? But Bill had ordered them to stay at the concert venue. I smelled trouble brewing. I shook my head and turned back to the paperwork.

"Phillip, I need your Social Security number and your insurance information," I said.

Vaguely he replied, "Pocket." I wondered whether there was a sedative in the IV or just fluids and pain meds.

"Which pocket?"

"Back."

Swell. With the doctor's permission, I leaned across Phillip's torso to work my hand under his hip to his back pocket. Looking me in the eye, he said gravely, "This is not how I imagined this would go."

Had he just — ? Was that the drugs talking, or had shy, quiet Phillip envisioned me groping his gluteus under different circumstances? Any circumstances?

Unable to conjure up a suitable reply, I simply fished out his wallet and started looking through it for the relevant identification cards.

A few minutes later, I heard familiar, worried voices just outside the treatment zone. Giving Phillip a hang-in-there pat, I stepped outside to find Quentin and Quill haranguing the charge nurse.

"Guys," I called.

They swiveled, zeroed in, and transferred their attention to me. I stopped them short of engulfing me in a three-way hug; they were still in their performance clothes and I was damp with blood. The stains did not show, I realized, on my all-black outfit.

I spent several minutes telling them everything I'd heard the doctors and nurses say, interpreting the medical terminology, repeating anything that sounded reassuring. Gradually they calmed down enough for me to ask them a question in return.

"I heard Bill tell you to stay put. Does he know you're here?"

The two brothers exchanged a conspiratorial glance — the first time I'd seen them do such a thing. Then Q explained.

"We told Bill we needed a few minutes in the dressing room to collect ourselvess, which was true enough, and to start the second act without us. Then we called Nolie. Then we called you. And then we called a cab."

Quill rubbed his hands together unconsciously, perhaps still trying to wash away the blood. "I wouldn't have been able to sing anyway," he said. I could hear from the thickness in his throat that he was right.

"So Bill doesn't know you've left — well, he's probably figured it out by now — and he's going to be pissed as hell that you disobeyed him."

"Yes. And he can kiss my lily-white ass," snapped Q, his grey eyes gone steely with anger. "You don't keep a man from his family, not when they're hurt." Quill nodded emphatically, sharing his defiance. For once they were in complete agreement.

Yep. Trouble.

"All right. Just let me text Darius to let him know." On my Treo I typed, "Kellys w/ me @ ER. Q – X-rays. P – mucho stitches. Doing OK," and hit Send. Dare, expecting my call, would feel his silenced phone buzz and pass along the message.

With that finished, I said, "Speaking of family, should we call anybody for Phillip? He didn't mention anyone by name, and I didn't see any emergency contacts in his wallet."

We all drew blanks. Leaving the guys in the waiting area with Quin's paperwork, I returned to Phillip's bedside. Dr. Nielsen appeared to be stitching the muscle layer of his arm back together. I saw a glint of white bone before turning my eyes squarely to Phillip. I gulped and tried not to show that I found anything upsetting.

His breathing, short and shallow, told me that he was clearly more distressed than I was, and I felt bad for leaving him alone for so long. Taking his right hand, I planted myself on the edge of the bed and told him I was there to stay. He squeezed me tight.

"Is there anyone you want me to call?" I asked him.

He thought for a long moment and then shook his head slightly. "No."

I knew Phillip was a loner, but surely there was someone he'd want called, someone who would be worried about him — his parents, a cousin, a friend. Gently I asked him again.

"No," he repeated. "I'll call my folks later. Not right now."

Shivering under the thin blanket, he looked about 10 years old. I put down my clipboard and pressed my hand to his cheek, unstuck a few curls that blood had glued to his skin. As he closed his eyes and absorbed my touch, I wondered when was the last time someone had made contact with him for the sole purpose of connection, of kindness. I vowed to do more of it.

Nielsen's voice jolted him awake again. "Mr. Davis! Stay with me, now."

So I talked quietly to Phillip, held his hand and rubbed his free arm while the suture needle flashed in my peripheral vision. I told him stories about my friends at home, asking occasional questions to keep him anchored. The electronic monitor above his head showed his pulse slowing, so it seemed to help.

When Quin was wheeled back from X-ray, I stepped over for a moment to tell him his brothers had come. More alert now, to my relief, he brightened upon hearing this news. A nurse disappeared and came back with the other two in tow. Together they offered prayers of thanks for the fracture-free X-rays. Then the needle came out for Quin's stitches, sending the ashen Quentin back to the waiting room to call their mother.

Things wrapped up at about the same time, Quin with eight stitches in his scalp, Phillip with five times as many on the inside and outside of his arm and a sling to keep it still. I listened closely to all the doctors' instructions. Quill went to the pharmacy for their antibiotics and pain pills while Quentin wrangled two cabs. When we eased them out through the automatic sliding doors, it was nearly midnight. I wondered if anyone would be waiting up for us back at the hotel.

Everyone was. They came streaming out the front door as soon as I stepped out of the first taxi and opened Phillip's door. With my arm around his waist, I felt the deep tremble in his body as he received careful hugs from the whole company. He was running on empty. A glance showed Quin just as exhausted, unsteady on his feet despite support from his brothers on both sides. I got the convoy moving toward their rooms.

"Quentin!" Bill barked as we started across the lobby.

"Not now, Bill."

"Boy, don't you — "

"I said not now." Quentin did not turn around, but his tone stopped his uncle cold. I was certain that Q had never stood up to Bill like that before.

* * *

It was a long night.

Phillip, though physically and emotionally wrung out, was still too jangled to sleep. He accepted my help getting out of the remains of his jacket and shirt. The pants he managed himself, trading them for sweatpants. Then I settled him in bed, sitting up, and he told me shakily what had happened. The story was short.

"When we came offstage, it was really dark and we couldn't see. You know, because we were still adjusted to the stage lights. I bumped into Quin when he stopped. I didn't really hear because it was so loud outside. Then something heavy dragged me down and I was just stunned. I got up and went over to lean against the wall. But I didn’t even know I was cut until — until — I saw Quin had fallen and I reached out, I was going to help him, and I saw . . . my arm . . . was dripping. But I didn't really see . . . it happened so fast," he finished.

He raised his unsteady right hand to push back his hair and ran into the stuck strands again. Taking a closer look at his fingers, he flinched away from the blood dried in his cuticles and under his nails.

"Oh. I need to . . . wash my hands," he said faintly. He was shivering in earnest now, juddering the bed.

"Stay here." I pressed him back. "I'll get some water."

I went into the bathroom and filled the ice bucket with hot water. I carried it and soap, washcloths and towels back into the main room.

"Soak your hand," I said, guiding it into the bucket. "I'll get the rest."

I wet and soaped a cloth and started on his face. He'd managed to get blood all over himself, even in his ear and down his neck. After resisting for a moment, he closed his eyes and relaxed a little, letting the warm water do its work.

I got the worst of it out of his hair, then turned to his hands. I raked his nails across the soap and scrubbed the right hand. The left I washed gently but no less thoroughly, checking discretely to make sure circulation was still warming his fingertips. Then I worked lotion into his hands, massaging acupressure points to ease his nerves. After 20 minutes, his skin was clean and the shivering had stopped, allowing fatigue to creep to the fore.

Now that he was cleansed, I felt filthier than ever. I needed to get next to some soap and water myself ASAP.

"Phillip, I need to shower now," I told him.

His sinking eyelids opened again in panic. "But you're staying here, right?"

"Of course," I soothed. "I just need to get my stuff in here."

I rang Q on his cell phone, figuring he wouldn't be sleeping either. I got his report on Quin's condition — sleeping but wakeable — and his and Quill's — emotionally wrecked but still wired on worry. Nothing unexpected.

I got to the point of my call, saying, "I need one of you to bring me my luggage from my room and keep Phillip company while I shower."

"Oh, sure." After a quick conference on the other end, he told me Quill was on his way. I gave him Phillip's room number and hung up. A moment later I heard the soft rap at the door. I gave Quill my room key and told him to bring me everything.

I had not unpacked much — I never did — so he was back with my suitcase in just a few minutes. He stepped hesitantly into the room, remembering how Phillip had looked the last time he'd seen him. I had already removed everything blood-stained to the bathroom.

Then I realized it was me he was staring at. I wondered just how much of a mess I was.

I steered Quill to the chair beside the bed and listened to the low murmur of his voice as he offered to pray with Phillip, something I had not thought to do. I squeezed my bag into the tiny bathroom with me and shut the door.

I stripped hastily, peeling away my clothes where they had adhered to my skin. Everything went straight into the extra little trash bag. I did not look in the mirror. I did not want to remember an image of myself covered in a friend's blood.

I was under the spray before the water had even warmed up. Only then did I acknowledge to myself how grossed out, how just plain upset, I was by the night's events.

It took me as long to clean myself up as it had to do Phillip, and I was scrubbing a lot harder. There was blood in my hair, in the creases of my elbows and knees, even between my toes. There was no pretending I was not personally affected by what had happened.

At last I felt I'd done enough. I dried off, dressed in clean clothes, combed my hair. I rejoined the men in the main room feeling tired but at least somewhat renewed.

I could see that I'd emerged at just the right time. Though he cared about Phillip, Quill was anxious to get back to his brother. I felt his restlessness in the hug I could finally accept.

"Thanks," I said, giving him a last pat. "Now go on." He hurried out gratefully, and I settled in to wait out the night.

Phillip slept, eventually, but not deeply and not well. When he relaxed too far, the accident replayed itself in his mind's eye, bringing him awake with a grasp. The TV provided inadequate, impersonal distraction. I moved to sit on the bed with him, talking his fears away so he could rest a little more.

While he dozed, I made a quick blog entry, knowing Bill had already announced the accident at the concert, and set up a special forum in the Basement for get-well wishes. I dropped a few lines in my online journal as well, knowing my friends would respond with as much concern for me as for those who were injured. And then I wrote it all out in my most private pen-and-paper journal, again and again until I could think about something else.

Toward dawn, I dropped into a light alpha state, resting but not really sleeping, still alert for Phillip's stirring. When I roused us for the morning departure, my eyes, like a cheap detective novel, were hot and gritty.

Bad analogy, Kielle. You need some real sleep.