Chapter 56 Murphy
MURPHY
Murphy sat in the driver’s seat, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, staring at the sterile glass doors of the hospital entrance. His chest felt too tight to draw a full breath. The car hummed faintly around them, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.
Beside him, Hillary sat quietly, her presence steady in the way he didn’t know he needed until now. She hadn’t pushed, hadn’t rushed him, just sat there, one hand resting lightly on his thigh. That small touch anchored him more than she could ever know.
“I hate hospitals,” he muttered finally, his voice rough.
“I know,” Hillary said softly. She didn’t move her hand, just rubbed her thumb back and forth, slow and gentle. “But you’re not going in alone.”
That cracked something in him. He let out a shaky breath, leaned his head back against the seat, and closed his eyes. “He’s my little brother, Hill. And I wasn’t here when it got bad. I wasn’t—”
She cut him off gently. “Murphy. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
Her words sank deep, but the fear still churned. He opened his eyes and turned to her. She looked so calm, so certain, like she truly believed he could handle this when he wasn’t sure at all.
“I don’t know if I can see him like this.” His throat burned. “Last time he went under surgery, I thought—” He broke off, shaking his head.
Hillary leaned closer, pressing her forehead briefly against his. “You don’t have to be strong right now. You just have to love him. That’s enough.”
Something in her voice, steady but tender, let him breathe again. He unclenched his fists from the steering wheel and let his hand slide down to grip hers instead. Warm. Solid. Real.
He blew out one more breath, nodding. “Okay.” His voice still trembled, but this time he opened the door. “Let’s go.”
Together, they stepped out into the cold Boston air and walked toward the hospital doors, her hand tucked firmly in his.
The hospital air hit him the second they stepped inside, sharp with disinfectant, threaded with the faint tang of bleach and stale coffee.
The sounds were a jumble of wheels squeaking against tile, a phone ringing somewhere down the corridor, and low murmurs from nurses at the desk.
Every step they took echoed just a little too loudly.
Murphy’s grip on Hillary’s hand tightened as they wound their way through the sterile hallways, following the blue stripe painted on the wall toward the recovery wing. He hated this smell. Hated these sounds. They carried too many memories.
When they finally reached the room, the door was cracked, and the light inside was low. For a second, Murphy froze in the doorway, his chest locked up tight. Then his eyes adjusted, and he spotted her.
Maddie.
His little sister was curled in a chair beside the bed, legs tucked up, her ever-present drawing pad propped against her knees.
Her pencil scratched lightly across the page, the quiet sound oddly grounding.
The glow of the hallway spilled just enough light across her face to show the concentration in her furrowed brow.
Murphy’s breath eased out in a shaky exhale. She looked up at the movement, eyes widening when she saw him. “Murph,” she whispered, the pad sliding off her lap as she scrambled up.
He stepped forward, letting go of Hillary’s hand only long enough to pull his sister into his arms. She clung tight, and he pressed his face into her hair, closing his eyes against the sting. “Hey, kiddo.” His voice broke, but Maddie didn’t seem to care.
Behind them, the steady beeping of monitors reminded him why they were here.
Patrick.
Murphy loosened his hold on Maddie and looked past her to the bed where his brother lay. The sight punched him straight in the gut. Patrick was pale against the sheets, with tubes and wires everywhere.
Murphy’s knees wobbled. Hillary stepped closer and rested her hand against his back, grounding him.
The bathroom door clicked open, and his mother stepped out. The second she saw him, her hand flew to her mouth, and then she was across the room, wrapping him up in her arms.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, pressing her cheek to his chest. “You didn’t need to come.” Her voice was hushed, but her grip was fierce, like she wasn’t about to let him go.
Murphy bent his head to her shoulder, closing his eyes. “Of course I did,” he murmured back.
When she pulled back, her eyes glistened, but she gave him the same brave smile he’d seen her wear his whole life.
The door creaked again, and his dad walked in with a paper bag of vending machine snacks crinkling in his hands. He stopped short when he saw Murphy, his face splitting into surprise before softening.
“Murph,” he said simply, voice rough, and set the bag down on the side table. He came forward, pulling Murphy into a quick, strong hug. “Glad you’re here, son.”
Murphy swallowed hard and nodded, too choked up to answer.
Behind him, Hillary’s presence anchored him. Quiet, steady, and there, her hand still on his back. For the first time since he got the call, he let himself breathe.
His dad’s eyes crinkled as he glanced at Hillary, then back at him. “And who do we have here?”
Murphy straightened a little, feeling Hillary’s steadying presence beside him. “This is Hillary,” he said, his voice firm. “My girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” his mom repeated, eyebrows shooting up as her gaze flicked between the two of them.
Murphy nodded once. Hillary, composed even in a hospital room, offered a warm smile and stepped forward just slightly. “It’s nice to finally meet you. We actually met at the Special Olympics event last month.”
Recognition softened his mom’s face, a small ah escaping her lips. “Of course,” she said, her voice gentling. “That was a wonderful day.” Her eyes softened even more as they moved back to Murphy, a hint of quiet approval in them.
Hillary added, “Your son was incredible that day. Everyone loved him. It stuck with me.”
Murphy’s chest tightened at her words, pride and vulnerability tangling together.
For a moment, the weight of hospital walls and Patrick’s condition eased, replaced by the surreal rightness of Hillary standing here beside him, with his family, in the middle of one of the hardest moments of his life.
“How is he?” Murphy asked, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
His mom sighed and moved to Patrick’s bedside, her hand gentle as she curled it around his, careful of the IV taped to his skin.
“He’s going to be okay,” she said, though the weary lines on her face told him how hard she’d been holding it together.
“There was some internal bleeding from the first procedure. They’ve stopped it, but .
. . ” She trailed off, giving Patrick’s hand a squeeze.
“We’ll know more tomorrow after the doctors make their rounds. ”
Murphy stopped at the foot of the bed, his chest tightening as his gaze landed on his brother. Patrick looked small, too small, against the tangle of hospital sheets, his usually broad grin absent. Machines beeped softly, keeping rhythm with the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Murphy swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in his eyes. This was Patrick. His brother. The one who always beat him at Sorry, the one who could light up any room with his laugh. Seeing him like this was a gut punch he hadn’t been ready for.
He took a shaky step closer, brushing his knuckles along the cool metal railing of the bed. “Hey, bud,” he whispered, voice breaking just slightly. “I’m here.”
Hillary’s hand slipped into his, steady and warm, grounding him when the weight in his chest threatened to crush him.
The room was quiet, just the soft hum of machines and the occasional shuffle of feet from the hallway outside.
His mom sat, holding Patrick’s hand, his dad unwrapped a vending machine candy bar, and his sister scribbling absently in her notebook.
Life had stilled, condensed into this sterile little square of space.
He squeezed Hillary’s hand, needing her touch like air. God, he was glad she was here. Without her, he wasn’t sure how he’d be holding it together right now. But with her, standing there beside him, it felt just a little more bearable. Like he could breathe.
The quiet broke when the night nurse slipped in, checking Patrick’s chart and machines with soft efficiency. Everyone instinctively shifted out of her way. The beeping monitors, the sterile smell, the squeak of her shoes against the tile, it all pressed in on Murphy.
Maddie yawned, her head drooping against her notebook. His mom brushed her hair back, kissing the crown of her head. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”
“I’ll stay,” Murphy said immediately, straightening.
But his mom shook her head. “No. I’m not going anywhere tonight. I want to be here when he wakes up.”
His dad, leaning against the window ledge with a candy wrapper crumpled in his fist, gave Murphy a pointed look. “You should take Maddie home, get some rest. Come back in the morning when we know more.”
Murphy opened his mouth to argue, but the weight of his mom’s tired smile and his dad’s steady gaze cut him off. They were right. He wasn’t much good to anyone if he burned himself out. Still, every part of him balked at leaving Patrick behind.
Hillary squeezed his hand, reminding him he wasn’t doing this alone.
Murphy pressed one last kiss to his mom’s cheek before following his dad’s quiet orders.
Hillary kept pace at his side, Maddie trailing behind with her hoodie pulled tight around her shoulders.
The three of them slipped out into the hall, their sneakers squeaking against the waxed tile, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
As they pushed through the heavy double doors into the cool night air, Maddie gave a soft laugh. “It’s just like old times. You driving me home from the hospital while Mom stays with Patrick.”
Murphy’s chest tightened at her words. She was right, it was just like the nights of his childhood, when he’d been more brother-parent than kid, shepherding Maddie through long hospital visits, trying to be steady when the world felt anything but.
The memory ached, even more now because he’d almost forgotten how heavy it could be.
He swallowed hard and forced a smile down at his sister. “Yeah, Mads. Just like old times.”
But inside, his heart twisted, because he didn’t want it to always be like old times. He wanted better for her, for Patrick, for himself. For all of them.
Hillary’s hand brushed his arm, steady and warm. Murphy let himself lean into her quiet strength as they walked toward the parking lot.
The drive was quiet at first, Boston’s streets washed in the glow of streetlamps, the hum of the tires steady. Murphy’s grip on the wheel eased a little when they passed a little taco shop with its neon sign still buzzing.
“It’s only eleven,” he said, shooting a look into the rearview at Maddie, his mouth tipping into a grin. “Still time for Don Taco.”
Her head popped up, eyes bright despite the long day. “Midnight chicken nachos?” she asked with a hopeful grin.
Murphy laughed, already flicking the turn signal. “Wouldn’t be the same without them.”
When he turned into the lot, the warm smell of frying tortillas already drifting out the open windows, he glanced at Hillary. “What about you, Boss? What’s your order?”
She met his eyes, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Somehow, with him calling her that in that easy way, things didn’t feel quite so heavy. “I’ll eat some tacos,” she said simply.
Murphy nodded, the knot in his chest loosening just a little more.
They left a few minutes later with a greasy paper bag full of nachos and tacos, the scent filling the car as Maddie hummed happily in the back seat.
Hillary brushed her hand lightly against his knee as he shifted gears, a wordless comfort, and for the first time all night, Murphy thought maybe—just maybe—things were starting to feel better.