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I can’t write a poem about it. I don’t even try.
Instead, I put a blank page of paper in my poetry box. I close the lid . . . and then I open it right back up again. I take out the blank page and tear it to pieces. Because that’s how the thought of losing Connor, after everything we’ve shared, makes me feel.
Shredded.
Late that night I lie in my bed in the dark and talk to myself. And I finally give voice to my fears, to taste the terrible words—to hear them out loud.
“I think I could be losing him.”
My throat narrows, making it hard to breathe.
“And the crazy thing is, if she’s what he wants, if she’ll make them happy—I would be okay with it. I love him that much. I want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me.” A sob tears through me and I cover my face with my hand, turning on my side and tucking my knees against my chest. “It just hurts.”
Sometimes a good cry can make you feel purged. Refreshed. Stronger. But it doesn’t work that way this time. When my eyes are swollen but dry, I feel even more fragile.
Like I could shatter at any moment. Like I’m already breaking.
I climb out of bed and go to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. I don’t believe in drinking away your problems, hiding your heartache behind booze . . . but a vodka tonic never hurt anyone.
Scratch that—a double vodka tonic never hurt anyone.
I hold the cup under the ice maker in my refrigerator door, filling it up, watching the smooth oval-shaped pellets shine under the light.
When I was eight or nine, a woman down the street, Mrs. Dobfrey, used to keep an eye on me and my siblings after school while my mother was at work. She had a stainless-steel refrigerator—the latest model—that made oval ice too. Darren and I used to call it “the good ice.”
I remember thinking that if one day I had a fridge that made the good ice like hers, I would have everything.
Life was a lot simpler then.
* * *
Connor
Two weeks after Aaron’s accident, he’s discharged from the ICU and admitted to the hospital floor. It’s a big deal, a terrific milestone.
The next day, Garrett and Dean show up unannounced to his hospital room . . . and kick me out.
“Seriously, dude, go get a drink. Several,” Dean advises, grinning in that easy, laidback way he’s always had.
Because his daughter is still young—warm in her toddler bed at night and safe under his and Lainey’s supervision during the day. He hasn’t been subjected to the terror that comes with exposing your kid to the outside world. When they’re little, you think the hardest part of parenting is the endless nights, teething and tantrums, always having them with you.
But it’s not.
The hardest part is letting them go.
“And a shave,” Garrett adds.
I rub my hand over the thick, coarse hair that’s sprung up across my jaw because I haven’t taken the time to scrape it off lately.
I thought it was looking kind of badass.
My teenager disabuses me of that notion.
“Yeah, you’re starting to get that Tom Hanks in Castaway look after he was on the island for six months.”
Garrett holds out his fist to my son.
“A-plus movie reference.”
And for the first time in what seems like forever . . . I actually laugh. It sounds odd to my ears and unfamiliar in my throat, like the muscles are out of practice.
But it doesn’t last long.
Panic slices through me when Garrett takes the chair on the left side of Aaron’s bed, resting his feet on the corner of the mattress, and Dean parks himself in the right one—so there’s no seat left for me.
“I-I can’t just leave,” I stutter.
I realize I sound like a shut-in—an agoraphobic—but I don’t care. Stacey’s been here practically around the clock too, leaving only to spend time with Brayden and Spencer, so she can reconnect with them. But I haven’t left at all.
Because Aaron’s mostly out of the woods, sure, but shit could still happen—really bad shit. He could develop another fever—an infection. He could try to get out of bed and crack his head open, or he could have an allergic reaction to one of his medications. He’s not even on solid foods yet because he’s scheduled for another surgery on his leg tomorrow afternoon.
Aaron looks me dead in the face, his voice kind but clear.
“Dad, I’m okay. Really.”
Anxiety twists my stomach into a double knot.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “And, hello—he’s with two teachers who are also football coaches—first aid and CPR certified, thank you very much. Me and Garrett are practically first responders at this point.”
“Also, I hate to point out the obvious . . .” Garrett gestures to the room around us. “We’re literally in a hospital. Short of wrapping the kid in bubble wrap; it doesn’t get any safer than this.”
