Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty Seven
Erica
I scrub my hands at the sink outside my dad’s room until they’re raw, then dry them on a paper towel that immediately sticks to my fingers.
I stand there for a second with my hand on the handle, staring at the little window in the door like I’m bracing for bad news to jump out at me.
Then I push it open and step inside.
Dad is exactly where I left him.
He’s in the bed, pale against the sheets, the blanket pulled up to his waist. There are wires on his chest, a monitor to my left with steady green lines, and an IV pole beside him that towers over him.
There’s a tube in his nose. Tape on his cheek. A faint crease between his brows like he’s annoyed with the whole arrangement, even in his sleep.
His eyes are closed.
He doesn’t move.
I swallow hard and go to the chair next to the bed. It squeaks when I pull it in.
“Hey,” I whisper anyway, like he might answer.
He doesn’t.
My throat tightens, and I have to breathe through it.
I slide my hand over the rail and find his hand where it’s resting on top of the blanket. I don’t grip too tightly. I just hold it, my thumb rubbing over his knuckles.
His skin is warm.
Thank God.
“I’m here,” I tell him, because I need to say it out loud. “I’m right here.”
The guilt is already waiting in my chest, heavy and sharp.
Because I wasn’t here all night.
Because I went home.
Because I slept in my bed while he was in here.
Because something happened last night that was… amazing, and I don’t know how to be a daughter and a person at the same time without feeling like one of them is betraying the other.
I look at his face and my eyes burn.
“I’m sorry I left,” I whisper. “The doctor said you were stable. They said you were going to be out until morning and that I should go home, and I did, and I—”
My voice cracks on the last word.
I press my lips together until I can get control of it again.
“I didn’t leave because I didn’t want to be here,” I say, quieter. “I left because I thought I could handle it. I thought I could walk into the house and just… get through the night and come back.”
I stare at his hand in mine.
It’s bigger than mine but frail. It’s never been like that before. Seeing his hand—the hand that’s carried me my whole life—so weak nearly breaks me.
“I didn’t handle it,” I admit.
The words are hard to get out.
“I broke,” I tell him, and my throat tightens again. “I came home and it was quiet and I couldn’t stand it. It wasn’t even the quiet, it was… the idea that it could be quiet like that again. Every night. Forever.”
I swallow.
I keep my voice low, even though no one else is in the room.
My gaze flicks up to his face.
He looks the same as he did yesterday. Still. Unaware. Out.
But what if he can hear me? I’m suddenly horrified by the thought. What if he’s sitting in there somewhere, and I’m just… dumping all of this on him?
I hold my breath for a second as if I might hear an answer.
Nothing.
Just the monitor.
Just the soft mechanical hiss of something keeping time.
I exhale slowly.
“I’m going to pretend you can’t,” I decide, because I have to keep talking or I’m going to drown in my own head. “But if you can… I’m sorry. I’m trying to be careful.”
I rub my thumb over his hand again.
“You scared me,” I tell him, and my voice goes rough. “I know you didn’t mean to. I know you hate being fussed over. I know you’d tell me to stop hovering.”
I try to smile, but it doesn’t work.
“I can’t,” I say. “Not right now.”
My chest aches, and I lean forward until my forehead is almost resting on the edge of the mattress. Not touching him. Just close.
“I called… my boss,” I whisper. “Nico.”
Saying his name in here feels wrong and also inevitable, because he’s part of what happened yesterday, whether I like it or not.
“I didn’t have anyone else,” I admit, and the shame hits hard even though I know it shouldn’t. “And he came. He came so fast it was like he’d been waiting for the call.”
I glance at Dad again, that same panic rising.
“In fact, I think he was,” I whisper again, then force myself to keep going anyway. “He held me. He… took care of me.”
My cheeks heat, even in this cold room, even with my father lying in bed unconscious.
I look down at our hands like they can hide me.
“I’m not going to tell you everything,” I say, because that’s the line for me. “Because I can’t. Because you’d be so disappointed in me. Even half asleep. And because I don’t even know what it all means yet.”
My throat works around the next words.
“He stayed,” I say softly. “Just until morning. So I wouldn’t be alone. So I could sleep.”
We didn’t sleep much. And for just a few hours, I was able to set aside my worry for Dad.
I squeeze Dad’s hand, gently.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know how that sounds. I know I should feel guilty, and I do, because you were here and I was there.”
I blink hard.
“But I also—” My voice wavers. “I also needed it. I needed someone. I needed to stop feeling like I was holding the entire world up all by myself, and if I moved even just a little, everything would come crashing down.”
I swallow, then add, quieter:
“And he didn’t make it worse.”
My eyes sting again, and I stare at Dad’s face until the sting turns into tears anyway.
“I wish you were awake,” I whisper. “I wish you’d open your eyes and roll them at me and tell me to stop crying like I’m made of glass.”
My voice breaks.
“I wish you’d tell me you’re coming home,” I say.
I sit back, wiping my cheek with the heel of my hand. It’s pointless. The tears keep coming, slower now, not the violent kind from yesterday. Just steady.
“I want you to recover,” I tell him. “I want you to wake up and be pissed off about the tube and complain about the hospital food and argue with me about the TV volume and pretend you’re fine even when you’re not.”
I huff a shaky breath.
“And I want you to let me take care of you,” I add. “At least a little. Just for a while. Because you’ve taken care of me my whole life, and I need you to let me take a turn now.”
I lean forward and press my mouth to the back of his hand. A quick kiss.
“I’m going to get you home,” I whisper. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I’m going to do it.”
The door opens quietly behind me.
I stiffen on instinct and wipe my face again, faster this time.
The door clicks softly, and I turn fast, heart jumping like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
It’s the same doctor from last night. The urologist. I rack my exhausted brain. Dr. Shah?
He gives me a small nod as he walks in.
“They told me you were in here,” he says quietly. “How are you holding up?”
I wipe my cheek again, even though it’s pointless. “I’m… here,” I manage, which is not an answer.
His gaze flicks to my dad, then back to me. He steps farther into the room and keeps his voice low.
“I wanted to talk to you for a minute while things are calm,” he says. “Last night I told you the surgery went well, and that’s true. But I want you to understand what we dealt with, and what to watch for.”
My stomach tightens.
He gestures gently toward my dad’s midsection, careful not to touch anything. “The renal mass was bulky,” he says. “Bigger than we’d anticipated. And it was adherent.”
I blink at him. “Adherent?”
“It means it was stuck,” he explains. “Not just sitting there. It was attached to, and entangled with, the surrounding tissue more than we like to see.”
My grip tightens on Dad’s hand under the blanket.
He continues, calm and straightforward. “A kidney sits close to large blood vessels. Big ones. The kind you don’t want to nick, because they can bleed fast.”
My throat goes dry.
“So you had to… go around them,” I say, trying to piece it together.
He nods. “Exactly. We did a lot of careful dissection. Think of it like separating something glued down without tearing what’s underneath.” He pauses, watching my face. “That takes time. It takes patience. And it’s why we’re watching him closely now.”
I swallow hard. “But you got it.”
“We got it,” he confirms. “We were able to remove the kidney, the mass, and the tissue we needed to take with it. We were able to control the bleeding, and there were no major complications during the operation.”
I exhale so hard it feels like it shakes my whole body.
“But,” he adds, “because it was bulky and adherent, there can be more swelling afterward. More soreness. Sometimes the body reacts a little more strongly in the first day or two.”
My eyes sting again. “What should I… look for?”
“In the hospital, the ICU team is watching his blood pressure, his urine output, his labs—basically how his body is handling the stress,” he says. “For you, it’s more about knowing this part is still a process. Today is not the finish line. It’s the beginning of recovery.”
I nod, because it’s all I can do.
He glances at the monitors again, then back to me. “It’s important that you get enough rest throughout this whole ordeal, too,” he says, and I hate how much guilt that statement brings me. “Do you have help with his recovery?”
“We have an in-home nurse coming. At least for the first couple of weeks. I have to go back to work.”
His pocket buzzes.
He pulls out a phone and looks down at the screen, his expression shifting into that focused, pulled-away look doctors get when they’re suddenly needed somewhere else.
“I’m sorry,” he says, already stepping back. “I just got a message. I have to go.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He gives me a quick, reassuring nod. “You can stay with him. Talk to him. Hold his hand. It matters, even if he can’t respond.” His gaze meets mine for a beat. “And if you have questions later, ask the ICU nurse to page me.”
Then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving me in the dim room with the beeping and my dad’s warm hand under my fingers.
I stare at the door for a second like it might open again with something else—more information, more reassurance, more anything.
It doesn’t.
So I turn back to Dad, squeeze his hand gently, and lean in close.
“Bulky and stuck,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Just like you. Of course.”
My laugh ends on a sob.
I press my forehead to his knuckles for one second, then lift my head again.
“But you’re still here,” I whisper. “You’re still here.”