CHAPTER fifty-eight #12
The tests to check for an obstruction, perforation.
The horror of waiting.
By the time he finishes, he looks wrecked all over again.
"Oh my God..." I whisper.
His fingers drag through his hair — frantic, tight — like he's trying to rip the images out of his skull.
"Yeah. It was... horrible." He presses his palms to his temples.
"I can't shake the image of Sam doubled over, vomiting in agony.
It just replays over and over in my head.
And the longer I wait, the more terrified I get.
What if Dr. Wilcott finds something even worse?
What if she needs surgery, and then her chemo's postponed, and the cancer. .. if chemo gets delayed—"
"Babe," I whisper, placing my hand on his knee gently. "you're overthinking again."
"Yeah," he breathes. "I know. I just... I can't stop."
I lift his chin. "It might turn out to be nothing more than a bowel inflammation flare-up. It could be her meds messing with her system. They warned us this might happen. It doesn't automatically mean the worst."
Zach exhales. He glances toward Sam's sleeping form, fear still in his eyes.
"I just can't help feeling this way. Every time I look at her, I keep thinking she's already been through hell and here she is, hurting again, and I'm just—" His jaw clenches. "I'm sitting here useless."
"You're not useless," I say immediately.
He shakes his head, not believing me at all.
"You didn't see her earlier, babe," he says, voice cracking again. "She was shaking so hard, and crying to make the pain stop, and I—" His breath shudders out. "I'm scared. I'm fucking scared."
My chest aches so fiercely I have to blink fast.
I lace our fingers together and squeeze.
"Anyone would be scared," I say softly. "This is... a lot to take in and you haven't slept properly in days," I continue gently. "You barely eat. You never leave her side. Your body can't keep up with that kind of stress, babe. You're going to burn out."
"I don't care," he mutters. "She needs me."
"And she needs you functional," I counter. "you can't support Sam if you're falling apart yourself. I'm really worried about you. I'm scared you'll collapse one day from exhaustion."
"You're right. I'm sorry... I just can't help it."
He deflates a little at that — shoulders sagging, exhaustion settling even deeper in his bones.
"I should've seen it sooner."
"No," I tell him firmly. "Don't do that to yourself."
He stares at the floor, lips pressed together and guilt tightening every line of his face.
"She was tired all the time," he says quietly.
"Kept getting sick. Losing weight. And I was just—" His jaw trembles.
"I was playing hockey. Focusing on getting drafted, going pro—I only cared about my own dreams. Thinking everything was finally falling into place.
And the whole time, she was... she was hiding how bad she felt, and I didn't even notice. "
"Zach..."
"I should've noticed," he chokes out. "I should've been paying attention. She's my little sister. And I was too wrapped up in stupid shit that doesn't matter. What kind of brother does that?"
"A human one," I whisper, cupping his cheek so he has to look at me.
But he shakes his head, eyes moist again, self-loathing bleeding through every word.
"She was getting sick again right in front of me and I missed it."
"You didn't miss it because you didn't care."
"I should've been there," he repeats, voice cracking. "All the signs were right fucking there."
"And you didn't know what they meant," I say gently. "You're not a doctor. You're a twenty-one-old kid who's trying to balance school, hockey, your future, your family — everything."
"But I still feel like I was neglectful," he murmurs, voice tight and small in a way I've never heard from him.
"Like I dropped the ball. Like looking out for her is literally the one job I shouldn't screw up, and I still did.
And that makes me feel like the worst, most unreliable big brother on the planet. "
"Hey now," I say, my tone soft but firm as I tip his chin up with my fingers. "Don't do that. Don't be too hard on my boyfriend."
I try for a tiny smile. "I happen to love that guy."
A faint, weary laugh escapes him — more breath than sound — but it's real.
It's small, but real.
"But it's true, babe," he whispers, eyes clouding again. "I feel like I failed her."
I cup his face fully now, both hands framing him gently.
"Zach," I say softly, "you are the best big brother anyone could ask for. You've been taking care of Sam her whole life. Every scraped knee, every bad dream, every hard year — you've been there. She adores you for a reason."
He swallows hard, eyes flicking away like he wants to believe me but doesn't know how.
"There's nothing wrong with you living your life," I continue. "Nothing wrong with working for your dream, or being excited about hockey, or focusing on school. You're allowed to be twenty-one. You're allowed to want things."
His breath trembles.
"And this?" I gesture softly toward Sam's room. "This isn't something you could've prevented. Cancer doesn't care how many hours you're home or how many signs you memorize. It comes whether you watch for it or not. That doesn't make it your fault."
He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tight with emotion.
"What you can do," I say, brushing my thumb under his cheekbone, "is be here with her. Like you already are. She's not fighting this alone. She has you. She has your mom. She has all of us."
A single tear slips free, and I catch it with my thumb.
"She beat it before," I whisper. "She can beat it again. And you'll be right next to her every step of the way. That's what being a big brother is."
His eyes open slowly, red-rimmed and exhausted, but there's a shift — a quiet, fragile kind of acceptance settling in his chest.
Not full.
Not fixed.
But the start of him finally letting go of the guilt that's been eating him alive.
He exhales shakily and leans his forehead against mine.
"I don't deserve you," he whispers.
"Yes, you do." I whisper back, brushing his hair gently. "We deserve each other. And Sam deserves a brother who loves her like you do — not one who punishes himself for things no one could've controlled."
His fingers curl into my shirt again, but this time the grip isn't desperation — it's grounding.
And when he finally murmurs, "Okay... I'm going to try to stop blaming myself,"
I believe him.
Even if it's going to take time.
Awhile later, we heard a soft knock on the door.
Zach and I pull apart instantly, both standing as Dr. Wilcott steps inside, a slim clipboard tucked under her arm. Her scrubs are wrinkled, her hair pulled back messily — but her expression is calm.
I search her face for panic, dread, anything that signals bad news—but there's nothing.
Just that composed doctor look that makes my lungs loosen a little.
"Dr. Wilcott, thank God you're here," Zach says the second she steps inside.
He moves toward her automatically, like every muscle in him is pulled tight. His voice sounds stretched thin. "Can you please tell us what's going on with my sister? I—I really can't... keep waiting."
I step beside him and slip my hand into his.
His fingers twitch, then wrap around mine.
I squeeze his hand just enough for him to feel it.
Breathe, babe.
Let her talk.
His chest rises with a shaky inhale. The tension in his shoulders eases by barely a millimeter, the deep line between his brows softening as he releases that breath and gives me a small nod.
Zach's grip tightens around my hand again — not violently, just instinctively — like he's bracing.
"The CT scan shows a very small pocket of air outside the bowel wall," she explains, tapping her pen lightly against the diagram clipped to her board. "This is what we call a micro-perforation. It means there's been a tiny leak, but it's contained."
Zach's entire body stiffens beside me. His jaw locks, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. I can feel the fear spike through him, sharp and immediate.
Dr. Wilcott continues before that fear can spiral.
"The important thing is that it's small and it's localized. There's no free air flooding the abdomen, no signs of widespread contamination. She does not need surgery right now."
Zach releases a breath he's clearly been holding for minutes — maybe hours — and it shudders out of him. One hand lifts to his forehead, rubbing as though he's trying to steady his own spinning thoughts, the lines of tension finally, finally loosening from his face.
"So... what does this mean? Will she be okay?"
"We're going to treat it aggressively with IV antibiotics, keep her NPO for bowel rest, and monitor her closely. Most micro-perforations heal on their own when we catch them this early." Dr. Wilcott explains.
"We may repeat the CT in twenty-four to forty-eight to make sure the perforation is stabilizing. If everything goes the way we expect, Sam can likely be discharged next week."
My jaw drops. Relief slams into me so hard my knees weaken.
"Oh my God," I breathe out. "Thank God."
Zach pulls me into a half-hug, his arm slipping around my waist as if his body reacts before his brain can catch up.
Dr. Wilcott continues gently, "We gave her a small dose of sedative earlier to ease the pain and help her rest. Her body needs the break. Let her sleep tonight — she needs it."
We both nod rapidly.
"Try to rest yourselves," she adds, giving Zach a pointed, knowing look before stepping out of the room.
The door closes behind her.
I turn to him immediately, cupping his jaw with both hands. "See?" I whisper. "It wasn't as bad as you thought. She's in good hands, babe. You got through the scariest part of tonight."
Zach's eyes soften for the first time in days.
Some of the panic drains from Zach's eyes—just enough that he doesn't look like he's drowning anymore.
He exhales again, this time almost a laugh, almost a sob.
"God," he murmurs, dropping his forehead to mine. "Feels like I can breathe again," he admits quietly.