Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(70)
And then she walks away.
Connor turns toward me, his eyes heavy-lidded with an apology I don’t need. I reach for him, holding out my hand across the back of the boys’ chairs. He takes it, folding our fingers together and clasping it tight.
And we wait.
*
Time moves differently in a hospital waiting room. Slower, more torturously, each second consumed with thoughts of what will be, what might be, what life will look like when you leave this room. Connor sits like a statue, hard and still, the cup of coffee I got for him sitting untouched next to him.
Brayden’s phone starts to die so I borrow a charger from one of the nurses in the back and he moves to the floor, sitting beside the outlet. At some point, Spencer falls asleep against me, his little breaths puffing against the beige hoody I threw on when I got the call from Callie.
Just before 3 a.m., the surgeon, Makayla Davis, comes down. Connor and Stacey converge on her and I gently wake Spencer, shifting him over, moving to stand on Connor’s other side as Makayla explains Aaron’s condition.
“He got through the surgery without additional complications. He’s critical but stable.”
She goes on to describe some of Aaron’s injuries—internal bleeding, broken ribs, a punctured lung, ruptured spleen, multiple fractures to his lower right leg that will require additional surgeries to repair. But there’s good news too—no spinal cord damage, no apparent bleeding on the brain, and Aaron’s vitals are strong . . . all positive signs.
“You and Stacey can come up to the ICU.” Makayla glances at the crowd still gathered in the waiting room. “As for friends and family, we’ll see how he does in the next twenty-four hours.”
Connor nods, swallowing hard, because he knows if things are going to go bad, it’s most likely to happen in that time period. Typically, only immediate family is permitted in the ICU, but sometimes they make exceptions if they think it could aid a patient’s recovery.
He braces a hand on my arm. “You’ll take the boys home? Stay with them?”
“Of course.” I nod.
Garrett conveys the information to the students and Connor’s family. Hugs are plentiful as everyone stands and starts to disperse. Spencer darts out of his chair and throws himself into Stacey’s arms. She runs her fingers through his hair and kisses the top of his head. Connor embraces Brayden and tells him he loves him.
“Your mom and I are going to stay here with Aaron. Be good for Vi, okay?”
“We will,” Bray assures him.
And then Connor turns to me, kissing me quickly, whispering a ragged, “Thank you.”
My mouth is beside his ear, and I want to tell him that I love him. The words are right there on my lips . . . already his.
But I hold back. Because he’s all over the place right now. His mind and his heart are scattered in a million different directions. And the first time I say those words to him, I want it to be a happy memory, a good thing—not associated with so much awfulness.
So I press a kiss to his jaw and let him go.
And I guide Brayden and Spencer to my car and take them home.
*
Rosie’s worked up when we walk in the door—barking and spinning in circles—because dogs can sense when things are wrong. I open the back sliding door and let her out into the yard.
“Do we have to go to school tomorrow?” Spencer asks.
“No. We’re going to take it easy tomorrow . . . today. We’ll see how your brother’s doing and we might go see him and your parents at the hospital.” I look between him and Brayden. “Do you guys want to camp down here on the couch again?”
Trauma is sneaky. Sometimes you think you’ve got a handle on it, that you’re doing fine. . . and then it crashes into you, knocking the breath out of your lungs and driving you to your knees. I don’t want them to be alone right now—I want them close, in case they need me.
They nod and head upstairs to change into their pajamas.
My heart feels weighted and slow when I turn my attention to the kitchen, cleaning up the dinner Connor was making for me. A sad smile brushes my lips as I throw out the steaks that sat on the counter too long, put the unused dishes back in the cabinet and the dirty ones into the dishwasher.
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.”