Chapter 45 #2
“Luke’s still in surgery,” Tiff replies quickly, seeing the panic in my eyes. Her voice is calm. “He’s been in there for a few hours already. He’s lost a lot of blood and went into cardiac arrest at least once on the table, but he’s fighting. He’s fighting with everything he has.”
Hearing those words, my heart feels lighter.
The sliver of hope I was so afraid to grasp suddenly takes more purchase in my soul, gripping me in a vise.
Luke’s fighting. And yet, even hearing that, my anxiety rears its head to challenge it in typical doom and gloom fashion.
But what if he loses the fight? What if something else goes wrong?
What happens if he doesn’t pull through?
Tiff squeezes my hand again as if she can read the worries on my face.
Her smile is warm, radiating like a beacon of sun peeking through a dark and stormy sky, reminding me there is warmth beyond the clouds.
I can’t seem to look away from her shining optimism.
“He’s made it this far. Don’t lose hope. ”
The waiting is excruciating—waiting for answers, waiting for bad news. It’s all tied up in a bubble of uncertainty while we’re stuck in this room.
It’s nearly 6 a.m. now, and there haven’t been any updates. The waiting room has gotten more crowded with people we don’t know who are here for their loved ones, too. The room's atmosphere is somber, sharply contrasted by the televisions blasting good-morning talk shows with their chipper hosts.
Everyone is exhausted, sleeping awkwardly or dozing off in their chairs, but I’m too wired to even consider closing my eyes.
My brain won’t stop contemplating all the what-if scenarios circulating like a cosmic duststorm of confusion: what if Luke doesn’t make it through this?
What if there’s irreparable damage? What if the bullet’s ruined his lungs so bad he’ll never be able to sing again?
Will we have a chance to resolve our issues? What could I have done differently?
My restlessness gets so bad that I get up and start pacing. It’s like my brain is zapping my body with a barrage of electrical currents, and if I don’t dispel the energy, the static will build until I self-combust. I can feel it all the way to my toes.
Marcus snaps awake when I accidentally trip over his outstretched leg, only to see me pacing like a frazzled mess. He yawns and stretches, gesturing for me to sit down beside him. At first, I don’t want to, but then Marcus grabs my arm and gently pulls me down.
“You’re spiraling,” he says, giving me a stern once-over.
“I can’t help it,” I whine. My leg starts bouncing in place of the pacing, and I run my hand back and forth over my jeans. “I keep thinking about what would have happened if we’d gotten there sooner. Or maybe if I’d rushed Pete before he could get off that shot.”
“There wasn’t a better opportunity for you to do it except for when you did. Not in a way that wouldn’t have caused more bloodshed. He was deranged—erratic. You hit him at the right moment.”
“But Luke—"
“Ethan, you saved Luke’s life,” Marcus says emphatically. “I saw where Pete was aiming before your tackle changed the trajectory. If you had been a millisecond too late, Luke would have been shot in the head.”
I gape at him, shocked.
“I’m serious,” he stresses. “You distracted that asshole and threw off his aim. I watched it happen. If you hadn’t done that, Luke would have died right there. You saved him.”
Hearing those words sends a complicated feeling through my gut. Relief mixed with nauseating dread to think I had that kind of effect. Except, now all I can think about is what would have happened if I hadn’t jumped in when I did. Curse my overactive imagination.
Still, the long wait eventually comes to an end.
A doctor appears, calling out for the family of Luke Shaw, and I jump up so quickly that it would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying.
The man’s face is stoic, so it’s impossible to tell what kind of news he’s bringing.
Everyone wakes up and gathers around to listen.
Tiff puts her hand in mine again, squeezing it hard.
I can feel how hard my heart is beating in my chest.
“The surgery went well,” the doctor says first, washing away the suspense.
“We were able to extract the bullets from the chest and left arm, as well as the shrapnel from the surrounding tissues. He’s incredibly lucky.
The left arm was the most severe of the two injuries.
The bullet fractured the humerus, causing the bone to splinter, but we were able to set and reconstruct it.
We won’t know the extent of any nerve damage until he’s recovered, but it looks promising.
Thankfully, the bullet in the chest cavity missed several significant arteries, and his lung, so it was a clean extraction.
If it had been an inch lower, this would be a different conversation. ”
Marcus grips my shoulder, giving me a ‘What did I tell you?’ look. I can hardly believe it.
“He’s in critical but stable condition,” the doctor continues. “He’ll be recovering in the ICU for a few days until we can ensure his vital signs strengthen. He lost a lot of blood from the two injuries, and we want to make sure his heart doesn’t give out from the strain while he’s healing.”
“Can I see him?” I ask quickly.
“Of course. But I must warn you, he’s currently being kept sedated on a ventilator, so he won’t be conscious.”
Hearing those words, I can’t help but freeze as my brain suddenly conjures an image of what that means.
Immediately, I’m reminded of the traumatic memory that’s forever been seared in my mind—my father, lying prone in a hospital bed, brain dead, but being kept alive on life-support.
I can see it as clearly as if I’m right back there, and my body reacts in kind.
Whatever else the doctor is saying about Luke’s condition gets warped and muffled, transformed into unintelligible noises.
This isn’t the same as last time, I try and tell myself, but it’s hard to believe. The doctor just said he’s okay—Luke’s fine. Calm down.
They won’t let everyone come to the ICU—there’s not enough room for the whole group. However, Marcus offers to go with me for emotional support. Maybe he can see the way I’m freaking out. I’m sure it’s written all over my face.
The journey across the hospital is arduous, and the whole time, I can feel the anxiety moving through my chest like it’s replaced the blood in my veins.
I’m nothing but cortisol walking. It takes all of my mental acuity to remember to breathe.
The moment we get to the unit, and the doctor leads us over to the little bay sectioned off with curtains, I see Luke lying on that bed, and I completely lose it.
He’s pale as a ghost, hooked up to various IVs and cables, blood and clear bags of fluids being pumped into his veins.
A heart monitor beeps steadily in the corner, a chilling reminder of my worst nightmares.
The breathing tube down his throat really cinches it.
The rhythmic pump of oxygen being forced into his lungs triggers an involuntary reaction in me.
Suddenly, my brain can’t differentiate between the image of Luke hooked up to a bunch of tubes and machines and the haunting memory of my father in the same position.
It’s like they supersede each other, happening simultaneously instead of a decade apart.
The deep, visceral wound in my soul left from my father’s untimely death is struck like a bow to a string.
The note that follows is harsh and discordant, and it overwhelms me.
I’m trapped reliving the worst moment of my entire life, and I can feel myself shutting down in another debilitating freeze.
“Ethan.” Marcus’s hand is on my arm. If he couldn’t see the panic in my eyes before, he can certainly see it now, and it sparks him to action. “Sit down.”
I let him direct me to a chair, and I more or less collapse into it. Marcus kneels in front of me and physically turns my face away from Luke, forcing me to focus on him. My heart is racing, and my chest feels tight. I don’t remember what it is to breathe easy. I think I’m hyperventilating.
“Is he okay?” someone asks, their voice concerned. Obviously not.
“He’s all right. He’s just having a panic attack,” Marcus affirms, though he sounds calm as he relays that to the nurse. God, how does he always manage to stay so calm? “Do you have any ice you can get me? That’ll really help.”
The nurse leaves to fulfill the request, and Marcus turns back to me.
Even though I’m finding it very difficult to function, I still can’t help but hate the way he’s looking at me right now, knowing what it means.
That my screwed-up brain has taken over once again, and I’ve been hijacked.
God fucking damn it. I thought I had gotten past all this. I was doing better.
“Ethan, look at me,” Marcus says, and his voice is so kind it’s painful. “Can you try that breathing technique for me? The four-six-eight one?”
I shake my head at first—I don’t think I’ll be able to get my lungs to cooperate.
But he insists, his dark eyes pleading. So, I close my eyes and do as he asks, counting in my head through each step.
Four in, hold for six, eight out. At first, it’s difficult to get into the rhythm, my chest feeling so tight that holding air in feels like suffocating.
Marcus counts with me, keeping me on track, his hands firmly in mine.
After a few repetitions, I can feel the relief flood through my shoulders which means it’s working.
My chest relaxes, my heart rate settles—even my brain chills out.
We do it for nearly a minute before I feel like I’ve regained control.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Marcus softly, putting my head in my hand, feeling ashamed.