Denise pulled in behind us.
We all walked to the elevator together. Me in my bathrobe and coat and slippers. Denise in her pajama pants. Two sixteen-year-old boys covered in blood.
Nobody said anything in the elevator.
The doors opened on the ICU floor.
The social worker was waiting at the nurse’s station.
Her name was Marguerite. She was about fifty. Short gray hair. Glasses on a beaded chain. Purple scrubs. She’d been on shift since seven the night before. She looked as tired as I felt.
Ezoic
She saw Nathan and her face softened.
“You came back,” she said.
“I brought my mom,” Nathan said.
Marguerite looked at me. At my bathrobe. At my slippers.
“Mrs. Rhodes?”
“I’m not Mrs. Rhodes anymore,” I said. “We’ve been divorced for ten years.”
“I understand,” Marguerite said gently. “But your son is Mr. Rhodes’s only family. And he’s a minor. We need a parent or guardian to help us make some decisions.”
