揑s Aaron gonna die??
His eyes are serious and somber梠lder than his thirteen years梠lder than he was this morning. And while I can see some of Stacey抯 features in him now, he still seems like a mini version of Connor to me.
揟he doctors are doing everything they can to help him.?
揟hat抯 what people say when they don抰 want to say someone抯 going to die.?His lower lip quivers and his voice goes thin and pained.
揓ust tell me the truth, Violet. I need to know. So I can be ready . . . ?
The nurse in me says don抰 give him any assurances. No guarantees. Aaron could develop an infection, an unforeseen brain bleed, the surgeon could抳e missed something, a hundred things could go wrong.
But the woman in me梩he woman who this sweet boy means everything to梔emands that I shield him from those terrible possibilities. That I do everything I can to ease his fear and relieve his pain.
揂aron抯 not going to die, Brayden. I think he抯 going to be just fine.?I put my arm around his shoulders and kiss the top of his head. He leans into me, needing that comfort so much. 揑 think the first time you see him he抣l be asleep because he抯 healing, but in a few days you抣l visit him again and he抣l be awake and talking just like normal. And in a few weeks he抣l come home, and he抣l let you sign the cast on his leg. And everything is going to be all right.?
Brayden shudders out a sigh, nodding against me, wiping his eyes. 揙kay.?
I wish Connor was here. I have no idea if I just did the right thing or not.
As the boys lay out their pillows and blankets in the living room, I close my eyes and say a prayer. I didn抰 grow up particularly religious, but I believe in God. I believe in a God that loves us, accepts us, wants the best for us梩he universe is too magnificent, the human body too perfectly intertwined not to have been planned by someone.
So I pray to God now. I beg and I plead . . . to not make a liar out of me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Connor
Lakeside Memorial has fifty ICU beds, each in private, small rooms to cut down on the spread of infection. Every patient抯 vitals are fed into a central monitoring station that is staffed by critical care doctors and nurses 24/7.
For the first ten hours of Aaron抯 stay in the ICU, Stacey and I sit beside his bed.
And we don抰 say a word to each other.
We stare at him. We watch the heart monitor, lost in our own thoughts. We talk with the doctor and nurses who regularly come into the room to check his status and administer his meds.
He抯 not intubated. He抯 breathing on his own but remains unconscious, which isn抰 unusual. Fifteen hours post-op he spikes a fever that triggers an arrhythmia梐n irregular heartbeat. It抯 scary, but also not unusual after the trauma his body has experienced. They bring his temperature down with medication and monitor his heart, but due to the fever, additional visitors aren抰 allowed.
With her elbow braced against the arm of the chair and her head resting on her hand, Stacey sleeps for a few hours. I step just outside the room and call Violet to check in with her and the boys. She says she抣l update my parents and brothers about not being allowed visitors and my chest aches with gratitude at having one less thing to worry about.
There抯 a gentle urging in Vi抯 sweet voice when she tells me to try and sleep, that I won抰 be good to anyone if I抦 out on my feet.
I promise her I will . . . but it抯 not really true.
My brain抯 in hyperdrive; I couldn抰 close my eyes right now if I tried. I double-time it downstairs to the break room and pour two cups of bad coffee for me and Stacey. My coworkers inquire about Aaron, but they don抰 hold me up梩hey understand my need to get back upstairs.
Stacey抯 awake when I walk in the room, tying her hair back in a low bun and wiping under her eyes.
揟hank you,?she says when I hand her the coffee, her voice thick with sleep that wasn抰 at all restful.
Forty hours after Aaron was admitted, it抯 still just the two of us in the room wearing the same clothes, watching our son take each breath, comforted by the beep of the monitor that lets us know his heart is beating regularly now.
And that抯 when Stacey speaks.
揇o you remember the night he was born??
揧ep.?I brace my elbows on my knees, leaning forward. 揃lizzard of the decade.?
揑 thought for sure we were going to slide into an embankment, get stuck, and end up having him on the side of the road.?
揝o did I.?
A smile pulls at my lips. 揑 remember wondering if I had anything sharp enough in the truck to cut the umbilical cord.?
Stacey looks over at me, smiling a little.
揧ou never told me that.?
I shrug. 揇idn抰 seem worth mentioning after the fact.?
揥e should抳e known then that he was going to be the one to turn us gray,?she says. 揋ive us all the wrinkles.?
揇efinitely.?I nod.
And then we fall silent again.
But the memory of those shared moments hovers between us, linking us together, pulling us closer than we抳e been in years.
揑 don抰 want to fight with you anymore, Stacey.?
My words are gentle, but resolute. Because something has to give.
揑t抯 bad for the boys . . . it抯 bad for us.?
揑 know.?She nods tightly, gazing at our son.
揥hen they brought Aaron in after the accident, he wanted me to tell you that he doesn抰 hate you.?My eyes burn, remembering his words. 揘ot even a little.?
Stacey抯 chest hitches and her mouth pinches to contain a sob. She brings the tissue squeezed in her hand to her eyes.
揑 know you think I抦 a shitty dad, that I was a rotten husband梐nd I抦 sorry for whatever I did to make you believe that. But we have to move on. To have things be . . . peaceful between us. We have to find a way to do that. I want to raise our boys to be good men and I want us to do it together. They need us to do it together.?
Her voice is raw and scraping.
揑 don抰 think you抮e a shitty dad, Connor. And you were never a bad husband.?
After a quiet moment, she scrapes her teeth against her bottom lip, and her words come out soft, like a confession.
揇id you ever think . . . that we got married for all the wrong reasons? Like, we抎 been together through college and then we graduated, and it was just expected that we take the next step??
揧eah, I have thought that,?I say, my voice soft too. 揃ut I don抰 regret it. We have the kids . . . ?
揑 don抰 regret it either.?She looks over at me, her face gentle. Unguarded.
And it抯 like I抦 looking back in time. Finally talking to the girl I knew . . . the person I used to love.
揈verything just went so fast,?she says. 揟here was never any time . . . and one day I woke up and I was thirty-eight. And I . . . couldn抰 breathe. Because my life was rushing by and nothing about it was what I thought it was going to be. What I wanted it to be.?
She inhales deeply, rubbing her palms on her jeans.
揑t抯 hard to admit that when you have kids. Scary. So I blamed you for it. Because that made it easier to change it. To upend the boys?lives and blow our family apart.?
I抳e wondered about this for so long. I knew we had issues梠ur marriage was never perfect梑ut her insistence on getting divorced took me by surprise.
揂nd then, this last year,?she goes on, 搃t抯 like I went crazy on only having to worry about myself. I knew the boys were with you. That they were safe and happy, that you would take care of them. And I got to think about me. It had been so long, Connor, since I was able to only think about me. It抯 like I was drunk on it. The freedom of it. It felt like I was twenty-five again.?