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After Makayla gives the go-ahead, everything moves fast. The portable ultrasound and crash cart are wheeled into the exam room; gowns and gloves are donned. Everything moves in a blur around me.
And then the paramedics are pushing through the door, rolling the stretcher in, rattling off stats and injuries. He’s just a form at first—packed in ice and a thin white blanket, a neck brace obscuring his face. Makayla counts it down and they lift him onto the table, the bright, hot light illuminating everything.
After they rule out a neck fracture, they remove the brace. And I see my son’s face. His skin is waxy gray from the shock, there’s dried blood caked around both nostrils, his lips are pale and cracked.
But I don’t just see Aaron with my eyes . . . I see him in my mind too. So many versions of him all at once. I see him the night he was born, the night he made me a dad, when I held him for the very first time—his tiny lips and perfect fingers—his face scrunched and his lungs strong and his little limbs flailing with indignity.
I see him when he was three—his hair was blond—and he fell off the swing in the backyard. And he ran to me with his knee bleeding, crying these big, heartbreaking tears. And I scooped him up in my arms, and I hugged him and kissed his face and promised that I could make it better.
I see him when he learned to swim, when I taught him to throw a football, when he graduated eighth grade, the day he got his driver’s license.
And I’m so proud. So grateful that I get to be the dad of this amazing, beautiful boy. A boy who needs me right now . . . more than he’s ever needed me before.
I crouch down low beside his head, keeping out of the way as they evaluate him. I lean my face right next to his, so he can see me, hear me. The activity and voices going on around us fade away, and it’s just me and Aaron here together.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, buddy, it’s me. I’m right here.”
I stroke my thumb back and forth across his forehead—because it’s the only part of him I know I can touch without hurting him.
“I’m sorry about the car,” he rasps.
My throat is hot, and my vision blurs and I have to blink to clear it.
“I don’t care about the car, Aaron.”
He struggles to drag in a breath—jagged and shallow. Somewhere in my brain a voice whispers, possible pneumothorax. A collapsed lung.
“I’m sorry I’ve been a dick—”
I shake my head.
“No, you haven’t been. You’re a good boy. A good son. I’m so lucky.”
“Tell Brayden and Spencer I’m sorry I ragged on them so much.”
I brush his hair back gently.
“I will. You can tell them yourself. As soon as you’re feeling better.”
Tears swell in his eyes and his voice hitches.
“Tell Mom I don’t hate her, okay? Not even a little.”
And it’s like my heart tears open, bleeding out. Because I’m so fucking sorry. For every harsh word he had to hear, every second of confusion or heartache he felt.
It never should’ve been like that.
“She knows that, Aaron. But I’ll tell her.”
He closes his eyes for a moment.
But then he looks up at me, his face crumpling.
“I don’t want to die.”
“No—no, Aaron, that’s not gonna happen.” I rub at the tears trekking down my face. “I’m right here. I’m with you. I will never let that happen.”
It’s crazy sometimes . . . the lies we tell our kids . . . the lies we tell ourselves. Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and I’m going to keep you safe.
I think about Ms. Allen and the way her knees gave out, the sounds she made when she realized her little boy was gone. She would’ve done anything to bring him back. Ripped her own heart out, given up her lungs, she would’ve traded places with him in a second if it meant he would be okay again.
But sometimes . . . there’s just nothing anyone can do. Nothing.
And I hate that I fucking know that. I wish I didn’t. I wish I knew anything except that.
But Aaron doesn’t know it and that’s how it’s going to stay.
I wipe his tears away gently, and my voice is calm and soothing, like when I used to read him a story before bedtime.
“You’re going to be just fine, buddy. They’re going to bring you upstairs and you’re going to go to sleep and they’re going to fix you right up. And when you wake up, nothing’s going to hurt anymore . . . and I’m going to be right there. I’ll be right there with you, holding your hand, I promise.”
His features smooth out as he takes another breath.
