Fifty Shades Freed

“Mrs. Grey.” Sawyer’s voice rouses me. “We’re on the hospital grounds. I just have to find the ER.”

“I know where it is.” My mind flits back to my last visit to OHSU when, on my second day, I fell off a stepladder at Clayton’s, twisting my ankle. I recall Paul Clayton hovering over me and shudder at the memory.

Sawyer pulls up to the drop-off point and leaps out to open my door.

“I’ll go park, ma’am, and come find you. Leave your briefcase, I’ll bring it.”

“Thank you, Luke.”

He nods, and I walk briskly into the buzzing ER reception area. The receptionist at the desk gives me a polite smile, and within a few moments, she’s located Ray and is sending me to the OR on the third floor.

OR? Fuck! “Thank you,” I mutter, trying to focus on her directions to the elevators. My stomach lurches as I almost run toward them.

Let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

The elevator is agonizingly slow, stopping on each floor. Come on… Come on! I will it to move faster, scowling at the people strolling in and out and preventing me from getting to my dad.

Finally, the doors open on the third floor, and I rush to another reception desk, this one staffed by nurses in navy uniforms.

“Can I help you?” asks one officious nurse with a myopic stare.

“My father, Raymond Steele. He’s just been admitted. He’s in OR-4, I think.” Even as I say the words, I am willing them not to be true.

“Let me check, Miss Steele.”

I nod, not bothering to correct her as she gazes intently at her computer screen.

“Yes. He’s been in for a couple of hours. If you’d like to wait, I’ll let them know that you’re here. The waiting room’s there.” She points toward a large white door helpfully labeled WAITING ROOM in bold blue lettering.

“Is he okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You’ll have to wait for one of the attending doctor to brief you, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” I mutter-but inside I am screaming, I want to know now!

I open the door to reveal a functional, austere waiting room where Mr. Rodriguez and Jose are seated.

“Ana!” Mr. Rodriguez gasps. His arm is in a cast, and his cheek is bruised on one side. He’s in a wheelchair with one of his legs in a cast too. I gingerly wrap my arms around him.

“Oh, Mr. Rodriguez,” I sob.

“Ana, honey.” He pats my back with his uninjured arm. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, his hoarse voice cracking.

Oh no.

“No, Papa,” Jose says softly in admonishment as he hovers behind me. When I turn, he pulls me into his arms and holds me.

“Jose,” I mutter. And I’m lost-tears falling as all the tension, fear, and heartache of the last three hours surface.

“Hey, Ana, don’t cry.” Jose gently strokes my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck and softly weep. We stand like this for ages, and I’m so grateful that my friend is here. We pull apart when Sawyer joins us in the waiting room. Mr. Rodriguez hands me a tissue from a conveniently placed box, and I dry my tears.

“This is Mr. Sawyer. Security,” I murmur. Sawyer nods politely to Jose and Mr. Rodriguez then moves to take a seat in the corner.

“Sit down, Ana.” Jose ushers me to one of the vinyl-covered armchairs.

“What happened? Do we know how he is? What are they doing?”

Jose holds up his hands to halt my barrage of questions and sits down beside me. “We don’t have any news. Ray, Dad, and I were on a fishing trip to Astoria. We were hit by some stupid fucking drunk-”

Mr. Rodriguez tries to interrupt, stammering an apology.

“Calmate, Papa!” Jose snaps. “I don’t have a mark on me, just a couple of bruised ribs and a knock on the head. Dad . . . well, Dad broke his wrist and ankle. But the car hit the passenger side and Ray.”

Oh no, no… Panic swamps my limbic system again. No, no, no. My body shudders and chills as I imagine what’s happening to Ray in the OR.

“He’s in surgery. We were taken to the community hospital in Astoria, but they airlifted Ray here. We don’t know what they’re doing. We’re waiting for news.”

I start to shake.

“Hey, Ana, you cold?”

I nod. I’m in my white sleeveless shirt and black summer jacket, and neither provides warmth. Gingerly, Jose pulls off his leather jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.

“Shall I get you some tea, ma’am?” Sawyer is by my side. I nod gratefully, and he disappears from the room.

“Why were you fishing in Astoria?” I ask.

Jose shrugs. “The fishing’s supposed to be good there. We were having a boys’ get-together. Some bonding time with my old man before academia heats up for my final year.” Jose’s dark eyes are large and luminous with fear and regret.

“You could have been hurt, too. And Mr. Rodriguez . . . worse.” I gulp at the thought. My body temperature drops further, and I shiver once more. Jose takes my hand.

“Hell, Ana, you’re freezing.”

Mr. Rodriguez inches forward and takes my other hand in his good one.

“Ana, I am so sorry.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, please. It was an accident . . .” My voice fades to a whisper.

“Call me Jose,” he corrects me. I give him a weak smile, because that’s all I can manage. I shiver once more.

“The police took the asshole into custody. Seven in the morning and the guy was out of his skull,” Jose hisses in disgust.

Sawyer reenters, bearing a paper cup of hot water and a separate teabag. He knows how I take my tea! I’m surprised, and glad for the distraction. Mr. Rodriguez and Jose release my hands as I gratefully take the cup from Sawyer.

“Do either of you want anything?” Sawyer asks Mr. Rodriguez and Jose. They both shake their heads, and Sawyer resumes his seat in the corner. I dunk my teabag in the water and, rising shakily, dispose of the used bag in a small trashcan.

“What’s taking them so long?” I mutter to no one in particular as I take a sip.

Daddy… Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

“We’ll know soon enough, Ana,” Jose says gently. I nod and take another sip. I take my seat again beside him. We wait . . . and wait. Mr. Rodriguez with his eyes closed, praying I think, and Jose holding my hand and squeezing it every now and then. I slowly sip my tea. It’s not Twinings, but some cheap nasty brand, and it tastes disgusting.

I remember the last time I waited for news. The last time I thought all was lost when Charlie Tango went missing. Closing my eyes, I offer up a silent prayer for the safe passage of my husband. I glance at my watch: 2:15 p.m. He should be here soon. My tea is cold… Ugh!