42. Summer
42
SUMMER
T he surgeon’s words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. “The operation was successful in addressing the immediate issue,” Dr. Simmons said, his voice calm but laced with gravity. “But Ava’s recovery is critical. The next 24 hours will tell us if her body is strong enough to respond to the changes.” I nodded numbly, my hands gripping the edge of the chair as if it were the only thing keeping me upright. Beside me, Enzo sat rigid, his jaw clenched and his hands tightly folded in his lap. He hadn’t spoken since the surgeon walked in, but I could feel the tension radiating off him.
“What are the odds?” Enzo asked finally, his voice low and controlled. Dr. Simmons sighed, his gaze shifting between us. “It’s hard to say. Statistically, she has about a 50% chance of making a full recovery at this stage. A lot depends on how her body responds overnight.” The weight of those words settled on my chest like a boulder. Fifty-fifty. A coin toss. I felt my breath hitch, but I forced myself to stay composed. Ava needed me to be strong.
“Can we see her?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Of course,” Dr. Simmons said. “She’s in the ICU now. The nurses will let you in shortly, but only two at a time.” I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as he excused himself. The moment he was gone, the dam inside me broke.
I buried my face in my hands, hot tears spilling over as the reality of the situation crashed down on me. “I can’t lose her, Enzo,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I can’t. She’s my whole world.” Enzo shifted closer, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder. “We’re not going to lose her, Summer,” he said, his tone steady despite the tightness in his voice. “Ava is strong. Stronger than we give her credit for.”
“She’s just a little girl,” I choked out, wiping at my face. “She shouldn’t have to fight this hard just to live.” Enzo’s hand slid down to clasp mine, his grip solid and grounding. “I know,” he said softly. “But she’s not fighting alone. She has us, and she has everyone who loves her.”
The nurse arrived shortly after to escort us to Ava’s room. The sight of her small body surrounded by machines and tubes hit me like a punch to the gut. Her face was pale, her little chest rising and falling with the help of a ventilator. Bunny was tucked under her arm, a faint reminder of the bright, spirited girl she was just days ago. I stood frozen in the doorway, unable to move until Enzo gently guided me forward.
“She’s in good hands,” the nurse said reassuringly before leaving us alone. I pulled up a chair beside Ava’s bed, my fingers trembling as I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Hi, baby,” I whispered, my tears threatening to spill again. “Mommy’s here.”
Enzo stood on the other side of the bed, his hand resting lightly on Ava’s leg. “We’re both here,” he said, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “You just keep fighting, okay? We’ve got you.”
The hours stretched endlessly. Elaine and Richard arrived to take their turns sitting with Ava, giving Enzo and me a chance to step out briefly. Messages of support continued to flood in—texts, emails, and social media posts from friends, colleagues, and even strangers who’d read about Ava’s journey. Each one was a bittersweet reminder of how much Ava was loved and how many people were rooting for her.
“Did you see this?” Elaine said softly, holding up her phone to show me a post from a local business offering to host a fundraiser for Ava’s ongoing care. I nodded, my throat too tight to respond. It was overwhelming to see so much kindness when all I could focus on was the terrifying uncertainty ahead.
Later that evening, after Elaine and Richard had gone home, Enzo and I sat together in the small family lounge down the hall. The sterile fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the room, and the hum of the vending machine filled the silence.
“You’ve been quiet,” I said, breaking the stillness. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I hate this, Summer,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “I hate that I can’t do anything to help her. I’ve spent my whole career fixing things, finding solutions, and now all I can do is wait.”
His words hit me hard. Enzo had always been the one who stayed calm under pressure, the one who found answers when no one else could. Seeing him like this—vulnerable and full of doubt—made my chest ache. “You are helping her,” I said gently, reaching for his hand. “Just by being here, by being her dad. That means everything.”
He looked at me then, his dark eyes filled with a mix of frustration and gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said softly. “You’ve been so strong through all of this.” I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “I’m only strong because I have to be. For Ava. For you.”
For a moment, the weight of our shared fears lifted as we sat together, our hands intertwined. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind me that we weren’t facing this alone.
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight streamed through the hospital windows, the ICU nurse stepped into Ava’s room with a small, hopeful smile. “Her vitals are stable,” she said. “That’s a good sign.” The words were a spark of light in the darkness, a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Ava was strong enough to beat the odds.