When the ambulance got there, blood was already flowing onto me and soaking my jeans. I had panicked and tried to stop blood from coming out of the wounds. I ripped a piece of cloth off of his shirt and wrapped it around his wound on his arm and put my hands on his biggest gash, his chest. I pushed down and Tristan wheezed. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I don’t know, I thought, so I continued. I was sobbing through the whole thing, questioning why this happened to Tristan out of all people. I kept my hands squeezed there until a few EMTs took it from there. They thanked me and said that I might have just saved his life. I wasn’t sure of what to think, but I tried to stay optimistic and thanked them.
I jumped into the ambulance and the EMTs asked me a few questions. Are you his guardian? So are you paying for the bills? When did you find him and in what condition? Things like that. They stuck an IV drip in him and put what they called a nebulizer on him. I called Mom and hoped she’d pick up. “Hello? Who is this?” the recipient of the phone asked with a slight Italian accent and attitude. It was her.
“Hi, Mom.” I said, trying to push away the choking sobs, somewhat surprised at the attitude that she gave me.
“Oh, Jenna! What’s the matter, honey? Are you crying? Is everything okay? Did you get dumped again?” I groaned and considered if I should’ve told her about it or not. One of the younger EMTs there briskly nodded at me and smiled. Did he know what I was talking about, or was he just used to this? I continued on with what I was saying.
“I found Tristan on the ground bleeding from all these places, unconscious, so I’m taking him to the hospital. It looked like someone really wanted to h-“
“Where are you? I’m coming there now,” she said with a sudden steeliness in her voice. I gave her the address and I heard her engine roar to life before she hung up. She lived only about 30 minutes away, but on Monday mornings, Manhattan was a very busy part of New York, so it was gonna take a while before she’d come…
When we arrived at the hospital, they hurried him out of the ambulance and into the emergency room. I ran along with him, but was stopped before he was rushed into the operation room. All I could do was worry and hope for the best. When Mom came, all I saw from her expression was grief and tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping down to the cold, marble floor. She came to me and asked me with a choked up voice, “How is Tristan? Is he in surgery? Oh, God, save him.” I heard the hurt in her voice and I understood how much more it hurt Mom than it did Tristan or me. I mean, she did go through nine months plus another 28 years to take care of him. She paced up and down the hallway for five minutes and then, finally, sat down, still sobbing and shaking, maybe even worse than before. I wished I could have comforted her, but all that came to me was ravaging old memories and throbbing sadness.