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Then I turn around and gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. Because Brayden is standing behind me.
“Is Aaron gonna die?”
His eyes are serious and somber—older than his thirteen years—older than he was this morning. And while I can see some of Stacey’s features in him now, he still seems like a mini version of Connor to me.
“The doctors are doing everything they can to help him.”
“That’s what people say when they don’t want to say someone’s going to die.” His lower lip quivers and his voice goes thin and pained.
“Just tell me the truth, Violet. I need to know. So I can be ready . . . ”
The nurse in me says don’t give him any assurances. No guarantees. Aaron could develop an infection, an unforeseen brain bleed, the surgeon could’ve missed something, a hundred things could go wrong.
But the woman in me—the woman who this sweet boy means everything to—demands that I shield him from those terrible possibilities. That I do everything I can to ease his fear and relieve his pain.
“Aaron’s not going to die, Brayden. I think he’s 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. “I think the first time you see him he’ll be asleep because he’s healing, but in a few days you’ll visit him again and he’ll be awake and talking just like normal. And in a few weeks he’ll come home, and he’ll 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. “Okay.”
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’t grow up particularly religious, but I believe in God. I believe in a God that loves us, accepts us, wants the best for us—the 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’s 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’s stay in the ICU, Stacey and I sit beside his bed.
And we don’t 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’s not intubated. He’s breathing on his own but remains unconscious, which isn’t unusual. Fifteen hours post-op he spikes a fever that triggers an arrhythmia—an irregular heartbeat. It’s 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’t 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’ll 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’s a gentle urging in Vi’s sweet voice when she tells me to try and sleep, that I won’t be good to anyone if I’m out on my feet.
I promise her I will . . . but it’s not really true.
My brain’s in hyperdrive; I couldn’t 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’t hold me up—they understand my need to get back upstairs.
Stacey’s awake when I walk in the room, tying her hair back in a low bun and wiping under her eyes.
“Thank you,” she says when I hand her the coffee, her voice thick with sleep that wasn’t at all restful.
Forty hours after Aaron was admitted, it’s 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’s when Stacey speaks.
“Do you remember the night he was born?”
“Yep.” I brace my elbows on my knees, leaning forward. “Blizzard of the decade.”
“I thought for sure we were going to slide into an embankment, get stuck, and end up having him on the side of the road.”
