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Jack looks so fragile in the hospital gown, his head lying back against the pillow of the inclined bed as he tries to keep his eyes open.
I can hardly breathe. It’s like there’s a massive weight on my chest. I paste on a fake smile for the kids’ sake.
“Sit, babe,” Luca says softly, putting a hand on my back.
“I’m okay.”
I’m not okay. I need to get the hell out of here, fast. I’m feeling dizzy and the room is closing in on me.
When Luca puts his arm around me, I close my eyes and lean against him, taking a few deep breaths. I should be the one staying strong for him, not the other way around, but I can’t. I just can’t. This place makes me want to run away and find a place safe to curl into a ball and cry.
“Jack Campbell?” a man with a tablet walks into the room.
Jack nods and lifts his head from the pillow.
“I’m from the x-ray department. Time to go take some pictures of your insides.”
The room is so full of people that he can’t get a wheelchair into the room, so Luca, Emerson and I step into the hallway.
Cora insists on going with her brother, and Jack tells Luca he doesn’t need to come. Luca, Emerson and I walk down to a lounge to buy bottled water from a vending machine, and Emerson crawls onto a couch without even opening hers.
“It’s after eleven,” Luca says, looking at his watch. “You should take the girls home so you guys can get some sleep. I’ll text when I find something out.”
I’m so relieved I could cry. I even feel a PTSD reaction to the coffee I can smell in here. It brings me back to all the coffee I swilled at the hospital in Phoenix to stay awake when Chloe was there.
I nod and Luca pulls me close for a hug.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m just worried,” I admit.”
“Me too.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I want to say I’m glad, too, but I can’t. I’m not. Much as I love Luca and the kids, the thought of something being seriously wrong with Jack is too much. Just seeing him in that hospital bed was traumatic for me.
It’s almost like a movie script: the heroine with tragic memories of a hospital is tested when a loved one is hospitalized. Will she come through, push past her fears and past heartbreak and come through?
No. I can’t. Once I walk through those ER doors with the girls, I’ll never walk back in here. I can’t force myself to. I’m already telling myself to just hold it in for a little longer and I’ll have a good long cry when I get back to Luca’s and can be alone once the girls are in bed.
I’m ashamed. For as deeply as I love Luca and the kids, and as many times as he’s come through for me, he deserves better than this.
Luca picks Emerson up and carries her back to Jack’s room. She puts her head on his shoulder and goes right back to sleep, even managing to stay knocked out when Luca lays her on two plastic chairs pushed together. We stand in the plain white exam room with Andrea in silence until Jack is rolled back in in the wheelchair.
“He did great,” the x-ray tech says. “The doctor will read the results and come talk to you guys.”
“Cora,” Luca says softly. “Abby’s taking you and Emerson home to get some sleep.”
“I want to stay with Jack,” Cora says.
Luca shakes his head. “You need to go home, buttercup. There’s nothing you can do here.”
“But I want--”
“I know. We may be coming home later. And if not, you can come back tomorrow, okay?”
Cora looks over at Jack, who’s nearly asleep. Then she turns back to Luca and nods.
We say goodbye to Jack and Luca, and I hug Luca extra hard and long. I was sure I’d found my port in the storm—the second chance I never expected. But at the first sign of difficulty, I’ve discovered I’m just not strong enough. I don’t think I ever will be.
“I love you,” I whisper in Luca’s ear, my throat tight with emotion. “So much.”
“I love you, too.”
He pulls back, brushes a stray lock of hair back from my face and kisses my forehead. I hope I’ll remember this moment when I’m feeling the devastation of losing him. When I cry and think back on the sadness, I want to have this to hold on to, too.
Cora and I each take one of Emerson’s hands and lead her through the hospital hallways. When my chest feels tight, I remind myself I’m on the way out.
Almost there. And I’ll never do this to myself again.
When the doors open and I get that first breath of fresh air, tears of relief spring to my eyes.
