Chapter 40
DRED
The week leading up to Meems’s surgery is an unexpected roller coaster. Connor vacillates between doting, overbearing, and combative. His stress comes out in sharp comments and soft apologies.
Christmas feels like a million years and a whole relationship ago.
My feelings for him have shifted. I feel like I’ve finally been given a family, rather than piecing one together myself.
I care for him and Meems deeply. This marvelous place has started to feel like my home.
And I’m terrified of what all this means.
I find myself desperate to feel connected to him. In the light of day, he shuts down, closes himself off. So every night, when the lights are out, I reach for him. It’s safe in the dark, where our feelings can stay hidden behind desire.
But I’m out of time today.
And even though my husband is sitting next to me, he’s far, far away.
Every offer of comfort is met with terse denial.
His family sits across from us, tanned from their week in the sun.
His father is typing away on his laptop.
Julian and Bryson are at work, because someone has to keep things running smoothly.
Courtney flips through a magazine, Isabelle works on an intricate design in an adult coloring book, and Portia holds a novel open, but she hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Connor’s knee bounces, and he taps on the armrest.
I tug at the scrunchie around my wrist. Neither of us has slept particularly well since Christmas Eve, and I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically. Plus, right now, I’m drowning in the tension of it all. “I need a coffee. Does anyone want anything?” I ask.
“The coffee here tastes like bathwater,” Courtney grumbles.
Isabelle closes her coloring book and stands, setting it on the chair. “I’ll come with you.”
I look to Connor. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine.” His jaw tics.
My heart aches. I stand and move in front of him, blocking everyone’s view with my body. His gaze stays locked on his bouncing knee.
I lean down and press my lips to the top of his head. “I won’t be long.”
I’m afraid to leave him alone with his parents, but I can’t protect him if he’s shutting me out.
I still haven’t had the guts to bring up the conversation we desperately need to have.
If Meems doesn’t survive, my happiness is no longer important, and if she does… well, that wasn’t part of the contract.
Isabelle slips her hand into mine and squeezes. “It’ll be okay.”
“It should be me reassuring you, not the other way around.”
“You’re close to Meems. Closer than I am. She always loved Connor best,” Isabelle says.
“She understands him,” I murmur. I thought I did, too. I thought we were becoming something real, but now I don’t know.
“I know Connor can be closed off,” Isabelle whispers as we start down the hallway. “But he’s scared right now.”
“We all are.” And he’s slipping away from me. I don’t know how I’ll survive if I lose them both.
“But Connor more than the rest of us,” she says softly. “Apart from you, Meems is the only person he loves like this.”
My stomach twists, because Connor doesn’t love me. Does he? a voice inside me demands. It’s what my presence in his life brings him that connects us. Isn’t it? That’s what I always tell myself. But why?
“You’ve changed him, Dred. So much. Once Meems makes it through the surgery, he’ll be okay. He just needs to get through this part.”
“We all do,” I agree.
She hugs me tightly. “Thank you for being here. I know it isn’t easy.”
His family is messy, but I know his sisters care. And he cares for them, too. So maybe he can love me, my mind chips in before I can shut it down.
Isabelle releases me, and we continue down the hall until we reach a Tim Hortons. I get coffees and Timbits for everyone.
Portia accepts a coffee and so does Connor, and I leave the others sitting on the table, in case anyone changes their mind.
Then it’s back to waiting, the knot in my stomach constantly growing, my fears compounding.
Two hours into the surgery, a nurse comes in with an update.
Her posture and expression make my already roiling stomach sink.
“The doctors are working hard to replace the valve, but it’s been touch and go,” she says. “We lost Lucy briefly, but she’s stabilized now.”
Everything inside me goes cold.
“Can they still replace the valve?” Portia asks.
“They’re doing their best,” the nurse replies.
Connor runs a rough hand through his hair. “This is supposed to make her better, not fucking kill her!”
“Connor, get ahold of yourself,” his father snaps.
I settle a gentle hand on his forearm. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, some of his tattoos on display. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“I don’t want to go for a walk! I want the doctors to do their job!” he barks.
I pull back, hands raised. “Yelling at them, or me, won’t make the outcome any different.”
His anger quickly morphs to guilt, and he looks away.
Isabelle and Portia are wide-eyed. His mother looks embarrassed, and his father smug. Like the outburst is expected.
“You’ll have to excuse our son. He has a temper,” Duncan says to the nurse.
“He’s hurting and afraid,” I counter. “Look at yourselves.” I motion to the four of them, sitting in a row, with no space for their son. “What did you expect when you turned him into an island?” I turn back to Connor and extend my hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”
He complies, but he still doesn’t meet my eyes. And I don’t know the impetus behind his actions.
In the hallway, his gaze remains on his feet, jaw tight. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Me too, and no, I didn’t.” I turn to him. “But this is a really difficult situation. What can I do, Connor? What do you need? I’m trying, but you’re shutting me out.”
“I just need her to live.” He pulls me against his chest. “I need her to stay. I need this not to be the end.”
I nod, my cheek rubbing over his shirt. Selfishly, I want the same things—not just for him, but for me, too. Because without her, where will we be? I can’t get him to talk to me. He’ll hold me now, but he won’t give me more of himself.
We loop around the hospital a couple of times, and then return to the waiting area. The next two hours feel endless.
When the doctor finally comes in, Connor grips my hand, squeezing so tightly my bones grind together.
“She made it through,” she tells us.
The room exhales a collective breath.
“Thank God.” Connor deflates.
“She’s not out of the woods yet, though,” she cautions. “The next few days are crucial, and we’ll be keeping a close eye on her.”
“When can I see her?” Connor asks.
“She’s still coming out of anesthesia, but you can go in and say hi. Two at a time, though. And only for a minute.”
“Go with Isabelle,” Connor’s father says flatly.
Connor doesn’t argue, and he doesn’t look at me as he leaves the room, following his sister.
I’m thrilled Meems made it through, but I’m afraid of what’s coming next—and what version of Connor will be on the other side of this.