An hour later, the heavy curtain to Bay 4 pulled back. An ER attending physician, a tall man with a grim, tightly controlled expression, stepped out.
“Mrs. Thorne?” he asked quietly. I jumped to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Yes. Is he okay? Can he breathe?” I asked breathlessly.
“We’ve stabilized his oxygen levels and administered IV medication for the pain,” the doctor said, his voice lowering to ensure our privacy.
“Your son has a severe, displaced fracture of the seventh rib on his right side,” he explained. He turned the tablet to show me the stark black and white X-ray.
There, clear as day, was a jagged, horrific break in the smooth curve of my son’s ribcage.
“The bone snapped inward,” the doctor explained, pointing to the image. “It narrowly missed puncturing his lung by less than a centimeter.”
“If it had, his lung would have collapsed, and given his oxygen levels when you arrived, it could have been fatal,” he added.
The doctor looked at me, his eyes dark and searching my face for the truth. “Mrs. Thorne, this is not an injury caused by a simple fall or a shove.”
“This takes significant, targeted, blunt force trauma. Like being struck violently with a baseball bat or kicked repeatedly,” he said.
“When the nurses asked Toby what happened, he was too terrified to speak. Can you tell me how this occurred?” he asked.
“My twelve year old nephew,” I said. My voice was no longer frantic, as the adrenaline had burned away, leaving behind something made of cold, unyielding iron.
“My nephew beat him. He kicked him while he was on the ground,” I told the doctor.
“And when I tried to dial 911, my mother physically attacked me and stole my cell phone so I couldn’t call an ambulance,” I continued.
“They told me he was just being dramatic,” I said, looking at the doctor’s tightening jaw.
“I see,” the doctor said softly, his tone freezing the air between us. He tapped his tablet a few times.
“Mrs. Thorne, as a medical professional, I am a mandated reporter,” he stated firmly.
“Given the severity of the injury and the actions of the adults present, I am legally obligated to contact Child Protective Services and the police,” he explained.
“We are dealing with aggravated assault and severe medical endangerment. I need your permission to tell them everything you just told me,” he requested.
“Good,” I said, staring directly into his eyes. “Tell them everything and do not hold a single detail back.”
“I will,” he nodded firmly. “I’ll be right back.”
I walked down the hall to the nurses’ station and borrowed a landline phone. I dialed Derek’s cell number from memory.
He answered on the second ring, sounding exhausted from his meetings. “Hey honey, Happy Thanksgiving. How’s the turkey?” he asked.
“Derek,” I said, my voice cracking for the very first time. “Toby is in the trauma bay because Cooper broke his rib.”
“My mother stole my phone so I couldn’t call an ambulance, and the police are on their way here right now,” I told him.
There was a long, horrifying silence on the other end of the line. Then, I heard the sound of Derek slamming his hotel room door.
“I am booking a flight right now,” Derek said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. “I’ll be there in four hours.”
“Don’t call my parents,” I told him, gripping the phone cord tightly. “Don’t warn them and don’t tell Deandra. We are going to war.”
“Burn them to the ground,” Derek replied, and then he hung up.