Chapter 32 The Cold Hand of Grief
THE COLD HAND OF GRIEF
REN
I explode into the emergency department waiting room, fully prepared to start busting some shit if anyone gives me any trouble.
“Where’s my wife?!” One of the nurses moves like she’s going to say something stern to me, but then my mom is there in front of me, her hands squeezing my arm.
“She’s being assessed, but I haven’t heard anything yet,” Mom whispers, worry creasing her brow.
I turn back to the nurse and ask, “Any update on my wife, Cassidy Logan-Rafferty?”
The nurse shakes her head. “Not yet. Someone will call you as soon as information is available.”
I stare at her, scowling, jaw clenched, but she doesn’t waver, her tired eyes don’t blink. Cursing under my breath, I turn away, pacing in front of the desk for a moment when the door bursts open again, revealing Dave. “What are you doing here? What about the game?”
“Coach told me to get lost,” Dave explains. “Figured the game was well enough over they’d manage.”
“We can’t have a crowd in here,” the nurse states clearly from behind the desk. She points down the hallway. “Cafeteria is that way, third floor. It’s open twenty-four hours.”
We both smile and nod, then I turn back to Dave and ask, “Did anyone call Conrad?”
“I did,” he responds. “He’s on his way.”
I turn to Mom, motioning toward the hallway the nurse had just pointed down. “I just need a minute.”
She nods, turns back to my dad and I walk with Dave a short way down the hallway.
Stopping short, I press my back against the wall, bending over at the waist, hands braced on my thighs.
My breath catches in my throat and I choke, coughing roughly as I attempt to manage the fear and panic churning in my chest.
Dave stands next to me, his hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “She’s gonna be okay, man.”
I huff out a humorless laugh then look up, finding some comfort in the pain on Dave’s face, the glassiness of his own eyes. I attempt to speak, but only to choke again, annoyed when the moisture burning in my eyes overflows.
Dave steps closer, his hand squeezing more firmly, a silent support as I quietly lose it, allowing myself to feel every second of the unknown for a few moments.
“Rennick,” I hear a loud male voice
Declan catches sight of me, eyes wild as he rushes down the hallway, and I barely manage to straighten before he’s right there, yanking me into a full body hug. I freeze for a moment, arms outstretched, but his arms only tighten, jostling me around until, slowly, I hug him back.
He pulls back, his hands moving to my upper arms as he sets me away from him, his eyes searching mine. “What happened?”
Still unable to speak, I shake my head, and then Dave responds, “Cassidy collapsed at the game. We’re waiting for news on how she’s doing.”
Declan nods. “I was watching the game and saw something crazy went down before they cut to commercials. I couldn’t see who was down, only Ren here attempting to climb over the glass to get up there.”
I attempt to take a solid breath in, relieved when I only half choke, so I try again, doing better this time. After a few more attempts, I manage to regulate my breathing enough to stand straight, stepping away from the wall. “How’d you know to come here?”
Declan shrugs. “Oh, you know, just made some calls.”
I shake my head. “It must be really fucking cool being you.”
“I mean,” Declan states with a small grin. “It’s not all bad.”
I laugh for real this time, grateful for the moment of levity after my emotional purge. Motioning for him to precede me back down the hallway I respond, “Well, I’m happy to see you anyway.”
“I’m gonna go grab a coffee in the cafeteria. Make some calls,” Dave says as he turns to head in the opposite direction. “Keep me updated.”
I hold up my hand, stopping him from leaving. Resting my arm over his shoulder, I give him a half-ass bro hug, which is more our style. “Thanks for being here. It means a lot.”
“Anytime, man,” he replies gruffly. “You know that.”
With a final nod he takes off, and Declan and I hurry back out to the main waiting room, immediately seeking my mom out. “Any word?”
“No,” Mom answers. “Not yet.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Mom and Dad look at each other, having some kind of silent conversation that I have no patience for. “Just tell me.”
“She said her shoulder was hurting her,” Mom explains.
“She wanted to go for a walk to stretch her legs, so she got up and went to leave the row when suddenly she bent over, holding her stomach, obviously in pain. We managed to get her out of the row, but it wasn’t until we were on the stairs that I saw it. ”
“Saw what, Mom?” I ask sharply. “Just spit it out already.”
“The blood.”
“Blood?” I whisper, cold dread churning in my gut. “What? where?”
Mom gives me a pained look, the sadness in her eyes almost taking me out at the knees. She doesn’t need to explain any further. “What caused it?”
Mom shrugs. “Hard to tell, really. Could be an underlying viability problem. That’s the case of most early term mi—” she cuts off her words, almost as if the word doesn’t belong in her mouth.
But she doesn’t have to finish the word for me to know what she was going to say. I squeeze her hand, dropping down into a chair and putting every ounce of energy I have left into willing Cassidy to be okay.
A few minutes later, the doors open, and a man in blue scrubs walks in, “Mr. Rafferty.”
I’m on my feet and across the room before the door closes behind him. “I’m Mr. Rafferty. Cassidy’s husband.”
He extends his hand, which I shake briskly. “I’m Dr. Evans, part of the gynecological team here.”
“Is Cassidy okay?”
“She’s stable,” he responds. “She’s being prepped for surgery, we just need some paperwork signed.”
“Surgery?”
“She has an ectopic pregnancy,” he replies patiently. “We need to perform surgery to determine the most appropriate treatment. She also may need a blood transfusion.”
I wince then ask, “But she’ll be ok?”
“Her prognosis is guarded yet good,” he answers slowly. “She’s in good hands with our team.”
A tiny thread of relief rushes over me. But then I pause, whisper, “The baby?”
He frowns, lips press together, shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
Pain cuts through me, but somehow I manage not to flinch. “I want to be there when Cassidy wakes up. I want to tell her.”
“We’ll do our best.”
I know that’s all they can do, and I force myself to shut my fucking mouth and not start making demands that are entirely too dependent on chance and circumstance.
Dr Evans goes into a shorthand explanation of possible complications as well as a bunch of legalities I don’t care about, even though I know he has no choice but to communicate them.
Then, after a dozen electronic signatures, Dr Evans takes his leave, and I hunker down in the waiting room until I can’t take it anymore.
Jumping to my feet I turn to my parents and state, “I need some air,” then make a beeline for the exit. I hook a left outside the doors knowing there’s a narrow alleyway between buildings right around the corner.
I walk a few feet down then lean against the side of the building; my head pressed back against the cold brick.
It’s dark, the bright lights from the sidewalk only making it feel even darker, colder.
I close my eyes, immediately opening them when all I can see if Cassidy falling.
Cassidy motionless on the ground. Cassidy pale and still, being loaded into the back of the ambulance.
It plays in slow-motion every time I close my eyes.
Opening my mouth, I attempt to take a deep breath, but it catches. I hold the breath in, my eyes and my sinuses burning as I try to keep my emotions in check, an impossibility when your emotional state is on par with an erupting volcano.
A hand on my shoulder startles me and I move to straighten but then Declan’s voice is in my ear, “It’s going to be okay.”
I place my hand over the top of his, grateful for his presence even if I’m slightly embarrassed. Declan is the most emotionally transparent man I’ve ever met; bringing the old ‘wears his heart on his sleeve’ saying to life. But it works for him.
The breath I was holding breaks loose, immediately releasing a sob that reverberates through the alleyway.
I attempt to turn away, to hide my bleeding emotions against the brick wall, but he just holds on tighter, turns me into him, his arm moving firmly around my shoulders.
My hand moves to his jacket, gripping the fabric as if it’s a lifeline as another sob fills the silence, echoes, stops.
Unable to stand beneath the weight of my grief, my knees buckle, but instead of falling to the ground in a heap, Declan squeezes me, goes down to the ground with me.
His back is against the wall, and I’m turned into him, my cheek pressed against the soft cotton of shirt, both of my hands now gripping his jacket.
He presses his face against the back of my neck, his voice heavy with emotion as he whispers, “Let it out, man. Just let it out.”
And I do. Even feeling stupid, even feeling as if I’m being overly dramatic, I let it all out because to not do so would only create a festering well of emotions just waiting for a target to spew it at.
It’s violent and ugly, a complete release of the frustration and pain of the unknown.
I let myself see her falling, see her down, see her being loaded into the back of the ambulance.
I let myself see every worst-case scenario imaginable, allow myself to feel everything in those moments. Let it cut me open, bleed me dry.
And then, it’s over.
My sigh is calm. My grip on Declan’s jacket eases. He gives me a last squeeze, his grip easing, but he doesn’t release me. “You okay?”