Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(86)

Meg sobbed miserably into Elle’s chest.

Elle looked to her aunt for help, and Susan drew the little girl into her arms, speaking in a gentle, light cadence that made it feel like everything would be all right, listing off what they would do until the time when they came back.

Everyone stood, and goodbyes were said, coats donned. And then they were gone.

Elle collapsed into a chair, her composure gone the minute the elevator doors closed behind her sister.

I sat next to her and pulled her into me, rocked her as she cried into my shoulder, her hands clutching my shirtfront over the spot where my aching heart hammered my ribs. And I was somehow certain that she hadn’t let herself go all the way, not until that moment.

It was a little while before she caught her breath and pulled away, blotting at her nose with a tissue balled in the shape of her fist, swiping her tears away with her fingers. And then she reached for my hand, meeting my eyes with weight that scared me more deeply than anything I’d seen that day.

“Greg, I need you to prepare yourself.”

“Tell me,” I croaked, my mouth dry as ash.

“She’s okay. I want you to know that. Like the doctor said, the surgery was successful, and she should be fine. But it’s not going to be easy. And what you’re going to see is hard, harder than I can explain or you can imagine.”

I listened mutely as she told me of Annie’s physical state, what I would find down the hall and in the ICU room. But she was right in that there was no way to prepare myself, not even after living with my mother’s lupus.

The room was dim but not dark, the bed in the center of the room so big and Annie so small. The low light made the dozens of tubes look sinister, like a beast behind her bed had slipped its tentacles around to feed. A white tube was taped to her chin and cheeks, disappearing into her partly open mouth, and a thick line wound around from a machine and into the artery in her neck. The entry point was exposed, the bulge the needle made in her neck disturbing and shocking, the tube into it the deepest shade of crimson.

Blood, I realized distantly.

There were tubes running into her chest, into both wrists. So many tubes, so many wires, even more beyond what I could see, carrying things into her and out of her.

Soft stays rested on either side of her, nestling her in the center, holding her there like an embrace. It was the only thing in the room that seemed to be there as much for her comfort as her safety.

My throat caught fire and burned, squeezing until tears pricked my eyes and fell. I wanted to touch her, wanted to feel her warm fingers in mine, but I didn’t move, afraid I would somehow hurt her, that the moment I touched her, alarms would sound, her heart would stop, that all the things I feared would come true.

And so I stood just inside her room, out of the way of the nurses next to Elle, who took my hand and cried with me.

Nurses came in and out with businesslike purpose, talking to each other in soft voices as they prepared the room for her to wake, which should be at any time, they told us.

I saw the moment it happened, though no one else did. It was the rise and fall of her chest that changed, picked up speed. I took a step without thinking, then another, and I was at her side, her mother and sister next to me. Her hand lay delicately by her thigh, and I took it in my own.

She squeezed, just a flicker of pressure.

A laugh that was a sob passed my lips and her sister’s and mother’s. The nurses were on the other side of the bed, one of them watching the heart monitor, smiling.

“Hi, Annie,” she said with that light nurse’s tone. “Welcome back. Can you open your eyes for me?”

It took a second, but her lids opened for a brief, shining moment before disappearing again.

“Good job.”

She stirred.

“Try to stay still, okay? We’re going to take the breathing tube out in a few minutes, but until then, just try to be still.”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes opening, then closing again.

“It’s all right,” I whispered.

Her eyes snapped open, the beeping of her heart monitor ticking up. She met my eyes; a tear fell from the corner and down her temple.

I leaned over, brushed it away, kissed her forehead.

“I’m here,” I whispered again.

Another slight nod.

I let her go, moved out of the way to exchange places with Elle. Her mother watched on with longing, unable to stand or get close enough with her chair for the wires coming from every direction.

It was probably fifteen minutes of her awake and speechless, still and barely conscious before they removed her breathing tube. I’d been prepared for a gruesome exit from her throat, but it was out so fast, I’d almost missed it. She coughed, her face bent in pain, the nurse on one side of her applying pressure to a pillow she’d been instructed to hold against her split chest.

“Can you tell me your name?” one of the nurses asked.

Her pale, dry lips parted to speak, but no sound came out. Her eyes were hardly open.

“I know it’s hard, but I need you to say your name and make a sound.”

She seemed to summon the power, taking a shallow breath, whispering, “Annie.”

The nurse smiled. “Perfect. Okay, in fifteen minutes, we’ll get you some ice chips, and if you keep that down, we’ll get you something solid.”

She nodded, but the nurse had already busied herself with another task.