Chapter 32
Rhys
Ihold her as she sleeps.
I listen to her breathe, replaying the night in my mind.
The incision, the calm teamwork, the husband’s relief. There’s a peaceful hum in me, a sense of rightness.
This is what medicine is supposed to feel like. This is what coming home is supposed to feel like.
After twenty minutes, though, another hum starts.
I hear light footsteps.
Finn’s.
Then Mikaela’s, softer and smaller.
There’s a shuffle outside the bedroom. A whispered argument.
“You think he’s home?” Mikaela wants to know.
“Yes. But he’s probably asleep.” Finn says calmly.
“I want to see if he’s home.” Mikaela sounds militant. I can all but see the expression on her face.
I smile, slip out of bed, and open the door before either of them can bicker their way into waking Jayne.
“Hey,” I whisper.
Both kids freeze like they’ve been caught sneaking contraband candy.
Then Mikaela launches herself at me.
“You’re home,” she mutters into my t-shirt, her voice thick with sleep.
“Of course, I am.” I smooth a hand over her hair.
Finn doesn’t launch, but he steps close and bumps his shoulder against my arm in that sixteen-year-old version of affection he pretends isn’t affection.
“I told her you were home,” he says. But….”
I don’t let guilt swamp me. I’m working on my wrongs, and that’s all I can do.
Mikaela pulls back and gives me a sheepish grin. “We heard that you were going back to the hospital and….” She trails off.
“I’m always coming home,” I promise.
The hall is chilly, and both kids are half-awake, clingy. I guide them to the living room and grab the large throw blanket off the couch.
“Let’s couch it for the rest of the night,” I suggest. It’s what we used to do when they were little. In those days, the couch was smaller, but so were they. We now have a huge sectional couch.
We pile in.
Mikaela curls against my left side.
Finn stretches out along my right shoulder.
The huge blanket goes over all three of us.
The house is silent except for the occasional drip from the kitchen sink and the soft whirr of the air unit.
Finn falls asleep first, breathing slow and even. Mikaela follows a minute later, her hand clutching a fistful of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
I stay awake for a little while, watching them, memorizing this moment, enjoying their weight against me. I’ve spent years hearing heartbeats through machines and monitors. Tonight, I feel two perfect ones pressed against my sides.
It hurts that they’re worried that when I leave for work this peace we’ve had since I started my sabbatical will go away. I can tell them it won’t, but they have to see it, they have to feel it, and then they will believe.