Chapter 14 Sharing The Grief
Sharing The Grief
ADRIAN
Sunburned from their cruise, they still wore the brightness of vacation on their faces—Eli’s mom in a floral sundress, his dad in a wrinkled Polo, both pulling luggage behind them because they’d come straight from the airport without stopping to change.
The sound of the suitcase wheels on the tile cut through the hush of the ICU.
A foreign noise in a place that only knew whispers and machines.
I glanced up, and for one impossible second, they looked like travelers lost in the wrong country—suitcases, sunglasses perched on heads, wide-eyed confusion giving way to horror as they took in the sight before them.
Me, on the floor, wearing bloodied scrubs.
Eli, motionless in the bed.
The equipment keeping score of his pulse, his breath, his borrowed time.
His mother’s hand flew to her mouth. The other dropped the handle of her suitcase.
His father didn’t move at first. He just stood there, shoulders squared, trying to hold the world still through willpower alone.
Then he crossed the space between us in two strides, and for a moment, I thought he might hit me.
He just stopped in front of me, eyes glassy, chest heaving as if he’d run the entire way from the airport. His hand came down on my shoulder—needing something solid to hold on to. His voice broke before the words did.
“Adrian,” he said quietly. “Oh, God… I’m so sorry you were alone.”
My throat wouldn’t open all the way to speak.
His wife moved past him, her sundress whispering around her ankles.
She still smelled faintly of salt air and sunscreen when she kneeled beside me.
Her suitcase tipped over behind her, a sunhat rolling across the floor, absurdly out of place in a room full of grief.
She reached for me before I could move away, her hands warm around mine.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “We should’ve been here. We should’ve—”
Her voice cracked, and the sound of it gutted me.
I shook my head hard. “Don’t—please don’t say that.”
Because the truth was worse.
Because I had been here. And still, I’d failed him.
She looked up at her son, her lip trembling. “He looks peaceful,” she said, almost like it was a question.
I couldn’t bear to look. The word peaceful felt like an accusation, the universe mocking me. Peace wasn’t what Eli deserved—he deserved life. He deserved laughter, second chances, and time.
His father moved to the other side of the bed, resting one hand lightly on Eli’s leg through the blanket. “He’s strong,” he mumbled. “Always was. He’ll pull through.”
I wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to that shred of conviction. But all I could hear was the echo of Eli’s voice, all the things we hadn’t fixed, hadn’t said. The separation papers. The silence. The ache that had stretched between us like an unhealed wound.
His mom turned back to me, her eyes wet but kind. “You’ve been sitting here all night, haven’t you?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Melissa reached out again, fingers brushing my sleeve. “Oh, sweetheart…”
The tenderness in her voice hit harder than blame ever could. I wanted her anger, something I could fight against. Not this—this unbearable compassion that made me feel smaller than I’d ever felt in my life.
“I should’ve been here,” I said finally, my voice splintering under the weight of it. “All along. Before this. He was trying to tell me he wasn’t okay, and I just—”
My words fell apart.
His father crouched beside us, one arm around his wife, the other reaching toward me. “You love him,” Michael mumbled. “That’s what matters now.”
But love wasn’t enough. It hadn’t saved him before, and I wasn’t sure it could save him now.
They stayed with me until the sunlight frayed into dusk. Nurses came and went with soft steps and practiced smiles, adjusting lines, checking monitors, whispering to each other as if the world might break if they spoke too loudly.
I hadn’t moved. Not once in twenty-two hours.
Eli’s parents had drifted in and out of quiet conversation—words not really meant to be heard.
Words like strong and hope and time floated through the air, too fragile to touch.
Every so often, his mother would brush his hair back from his forehead, her hand shaking, and whisper something I couldn’t catch.
I stayed on the opposite side of the bed, my chair pulled so close that my legs pressed against the frame. My fingers hadn’t left his hand. The faint warmth of his skin had become my only proof that he was still here.
By morning, I’d lost track of the hours. The harsh lights had bled into my skull until there was nothing left but hum and heartbeat and ache.
When the nurse came in again, she glanced at me the way people do when they want to speak but are afraid of what you’ll say if they do.
“Doctor Hawke,” she said gently, “you need rest. He’s stable for now.”
I nodded, but the gesture was hollow. Stable. It was such an empty word, a held breath. It meant borrowed time.
His mother crossed the room, kneeling beside me. Her face looked washed out in the sterile light, exhaustion turning her smile fragile.
“Adrian,” she said softly, “why don’t you go home for a bit? Shower. Change. You’ve been sitting in the same clothes since…” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
“I can’t leave him.”
She rested her hand on my arm, firm this time. “He’s not alone. We’re here.”
Michael stepped closer, voice rough. “You won’t help him by falling apart. Go rest. Eat something. You can come right back.”
I looked at Eli again. The rise and fall of his chest. The steady blink of the monitor. The faint hiss of the ventilator keeping a rhythm for him.
Leaving was a betrayal. Walking away from everything I’d failed to protect.
But the room tilted, just slightly, and I realized I was shaking. My limbs ached, my skin prickled beneath the crust of dried sweat and panic. Then I looked down—and froze. I was still wearing the same scrubs I’d had on when they wheeled him into my ER.
Jesus fuck. His blood was still on me.
“I’ll only be gone an hour,” I whispered. It sounded like a plea for permission.
Melissa nodded. “Go on, sweetheart. We’ll stay.”
I stood on legs that didn’t feel like mine, leaning on the rail for balance. When I bent to press a kiss to Eli’s forehead, my lips brushed the edge of tape and tubing. “I’ll be right back,” I murmured. “You hear me? Don’t you go anywhere.”
Then I turned toward the door.
The hallway beyond was filled with life. Every sound was an offense—the squeak of a gurney wheel, the laughter from some other corridor where good news existed. My hand found the wall just to steady myself.
By the time I made it to the elevator, my vision had blurred.
I could still smell him—soap, antiseptic, the faint trace of the hospital that clung to him like a second skin—and the thought of washing that away made me sick.
But that wasn’t Eli’s real scent, and thinking I might never get to smell that version of him again made me sicker.
When the doors slid open, I stepped inside, and it hit me how wrong the air felt without the sound of his monitor.
I went home because they’d asked me to. Because I had no fight left. Because I was afraid that if I stayed another minute, I’d shatter completely.
But as the elevator doors closed, I whispered to no one, “Please still be breathing when I get back.”