Bro Code(44)
“Megan, call 911,” I bark over my shoulder as I crouch down at Mark’s side. “We need an ambulance here stat.” Megan fumbles for her phone and punches in the numbers, rushing out of the building.
“Everybody shut the machines down and go clean up. We’re done here for today.”
The staff scatters in their assigned directions, powering down the equipment until the production floor is pin drop silent besides Mark’s low, strained groans of pain. I repeat back to him the very same words Megan offered me only moments ago. “Hey. You’re going to be okay.” I pray to God he believes me, because honestly, I’m not sure that I do.
*
My stomach is tingling with nerves as I walk through the hospital corridor. “I’m here to see Mark Hayes.”
The woman at the front desk pushes her wire-framed glasses up the bridge of her wrinkled nose. “Are you family?”
“No, I’m his boss.”
She shifts her gaze down to the binder of paperwork she's half-heartedly flipping through. Could this woman lend me even an ounce of her attention? “Visitation is for family only,” she says like she's repeated this exact phrase fourteen billion times.
“He was injured on his job site. And my employees are family.” I stand my ground, placing the big yellow vase of daisies in my hands on the counter to make it clear that I’m not budging. Her stubborn gaze meets mine, but she backs down first, rolling her eyes and slumping her shoulders.
“Room 1284. Head on back.”
I offer up a thankful smile, but she only gives me a twitch of her upper lip. Shouldn’t I be the one in a bad mood? I pick up the vase and scuttle down the hall before any other hospital personnel stops me. The curtain on Mark’s room is pulled back and he’s sitting up in the inclined hospital bed, sporting an enormous white cast on his arm. It’s only been a few hours since the accident and the room is already filled with mylar balloons that have “Get Well Soon!” printed on them and a couple of bouquets.
“Those are nice,” Mark says, nodding toward the daisies. I set them on his bedside table, arranging them next to a card signed by the guys at the plant. The corner of my mouth curls into a smile. Those guys move fast.
“It’s the least I can do. I really can't apologize enough, Mark.”
“I appreciate that, Ava. And the flowers, too.”
His appreciation does nothing for the pit of guilt in my stomach, though. I was half hoping that he’d tell me that this wasn’t at all my fault, but I know that it is without him pointing fingers. I am the one who ordered that engine, and I was the one who didn’t have anyone check to make sure it was installed properly. I'm responsible.
“At least you seem to be in good spirits,” I offer. Kind of a lame attempt at a silver lining.
Mark glances at his arm and gives his fingers the tiniest wiggle, proving the whole limb isn’t out of commission. “The doctors didn’t seem too worried about things, which certainly helps,” he says. “They said there are a few smaller fractures, but the break itself is pretty clean.”
“Well, I don’t want you to worry about anything. Your job, your paycheck, your family. It’s all going to be taken care of. Just focus on healing, okay?” As I say it, I realize I haven’t the slightest clue how I’m going to make it happen. Can I afford to pay an employee that isn’t working? Maybe not, but I'll do the right thing. A little voice in the back of my head points out the other side of this. That I can’t afford to be sued.
“Thanks, Ava. And thanks for stopping by.”
After Mark and I say our goodbyes, I step out of his hospital room and take my first deep breath of the day. Mark is going to be fine and so am I. He’s as good as family, and as long as I treat him that way, I’m not at risk of him taking legal action against the company. Accidents happen, right?
As I round the revolving door, the sterile warmth of the hospital gives way to the cold slap of an Indiana winter night. I start crunching numbers—what’s two months’ pay for Mark? Will I have to hire a contractor in the meantime? I don’t know how much further I can stretch a budget that’s already spread paper-thin. How did Dad make this work? He never seemed stressed about money or the factory until the day he got sick and couldn’t run it anymore. Or did I just not notice? Did Nick see a side of Dad while we were growing up that I was too young to make sense of?
Hopping into my car, I crank the radio dial all the way up. I don’t even care what song is playing. All the noise in my head needs to be drowned out, even if just for the drive home. I allow my mind to wander back to Chicago, back to passionate nights with Barrett where everything was simpler and, for just a few days, I didn’t have the weight of a whole company on my shoulders.
*
“How about we go see a movie?”
I’m usually in my office at this time on Monday mornings, but I told the guys at the plant to take a three-day weekend after Friday’s mess. I need the time to budget and get in touch with a few contractors to help me re-order the engine and get it installed safely. Mom, in her typical crusade against me running the plant, has spent all morning suggesting other ideas about what I should do with my “day off.” She insists that I need to relax after all of last week’s stress.
I try to remind her that this isn’t, by any means, a day off, that I have tons of very important work to do, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. I’m hunched over the desk in the spare bedroom we long ago labeled as Dad’s office, running numbers for Mark’s next two months of pay. Mom hovers over my shoulder, shaking her head. “I think you need to take a break from this, sweetie. We could go get coffee. I’d pay for us both to get pedicures if you want.”