15. Ethan
Ethan
“You're not breathing.”
“I'm definitely breathing. If I wasn't breathing, I'd be dead,” I quip.
“You're holding your breath.” Natalie adjusts my arm, pushing it higher above my head. “Yoga requires continuous breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
“Yoga requires a body that bends. Mine doesn't.”
It's Sunday morning, and I'm in my living room, attempting to follow Natalie through a series of stretches that she swears will help my recovery. She's in tiny shorts and a sports bra, flowing through poses like water while I struggle to touch my own toes.
“Now we're going to move into downward dog,” she says, demonstrating a position that makes her ass look incredible. “Hands and feet on the floor, hips up toward the ceiling.”
I try to copy her. My hamstrings scream in protest, and my shoulders feel like they're about to pop out of their sockets. My bad knee throbs with a dull ache that reminds me why I'm doing this in the first place.
“Am I doing it right?”
She looks over at me and presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “You look like a very angry triangle.”
“I feel like a very angry triangle.”
“Try to relax your neck. Let your head hang.”
I let my head hang. Blood rushes to my face, and I'm pretty sure I'm turning purple. “How long do I have to stay like this?”
“Five breaths.”
“I've already taken five breaths.”
She giggles, making my discomfort worth it. “Those were panicked gasps. They don't count.”
I grunt and try to breathe properly while my entire body protests. Natalie moves out of her pose and walks around me. “Your heels need to be closer to the floor.”
“My heels are as close as they're going to get, Nat.”
“And your back should be flat, not curved.”
“My back is flat.”
“Ethan, your back looks like a camel's hump.”
I collapse onto the yoga mat with a groan, my limbs splayed out in defeat. “I'm done. Yoga has defeated me. Tell my family I died doing something I hated.”
Natalie laughs and drops down beside me. “You lasted longer than I expected.”
“How long?”
“Almost twelve minutes.”
“Twelve minutes of torture.” I turn my head to look at her. She's flushed from the exercise, and her eyes are crinkled with amusement. “I’m glad you enjoyed watching me suffer.”
“A little bit.” She grins. “The great Ethan Ward, brought down by a simple sun salutation.”
“There was nothing simple about that.”
“We'll work up to it. Rome wasn't built in a day.”
“Rome didn't have to put its foot behind its head.”
She laughs again, and I reach over and grab her waist, pulling her onto my lap. She comes willingly, straddling me right there on the yoga mat.
“This is my kind of stretching,” I say.
“This isn't stretching. This is you being inappropriate.”
“I'm very flexible when it comes to being inappropriate.”
I kiss her, and she melts into me, her hands bracing against my chest. The kiss deepens, and I'm about to suggest we move this to the bedroom when my phone rings.
I ignore it, but then it rings again.
“You should get that,” Natalie says, pulling back.
“It can wait.”
It rings a third time, and I groan, reaching for it on the coffee table. The screen shows Mom, and my stomach tightens. “Mom?”
“Ethan.” Her voice is strained, and instantly fear lodges itself in my chest. “I didn't want to worry you, but Bella said I had to call.”
I sit up, shifting Natalie off my lap. “What happened?”
“It's your father. He fell last night trying to get from his chair to the bed. He didn't want to wake me up, so he tried to do it himself and...” She takes a shaky breath. “He broke his hip, sweetheart. He's in surgery right now.”
My stomach drops. “How bad is it?”
“The doctors say the surgery is straightforward, but with his MS, recovery is going to be complicated. There's a risk it could trigger a flare-up but they’ll monitor him closely.”
“Why didn't you call me last night?”
“It was late and there was nothing you could do. I didn't want you to worry when you couldn't be here.”
“I should have been there.” Guilt crashes over me. The last time my father was in the hospital, I stayed in New York because traveling was too difficult with my knee. Not this time. “I'm coming home.”
“Ethan, this will interfere with your recovery,” Mom says.
“My recovery can wait. I'll be there by tonight.”
I hang up and stand there for a moment, my mind racing. Natalie is beside me now, her hand on my arm, her face creased with concern.
“What happened?”
“My dad fell and broke his hip. He's in surgery right now.” An image of my dad on the floor, pain etched on his face. “He was trying to transfer to bed by himself because he's too fucking proud to ask for help.”
“Oh, Ethan. I'm so sorry.”
“I need to go home. I can't just sit around and wait for phone calls.”
“I'll come with you.”
“You don't have to do that.”
Her eyes meet mine. “I know I don't have to. I want to.”
This is a family problem that I should handle alone. But having Natalie with me sounds too good to refuse. I used to think I do well alone but having her in my life has shown me how different it is with someone on your corner.
“Okay,” I say. “Let's go.”
The next hour passes in a whirlwind of phone calls and logistics. I call the team office and explain the situation. They're sympathetic and tell me to take whatever time I need.
Natalie calls Ken, who is impressed by her dedication to continuing my treatment remotely. I contact my travel coordinator and have her book us on a private flight to Eau Claire, leaving in three hours.
While Natalie goes to her apartment to pack, I throw clothes into a duffel bag with barely any thought to what I'm grabbing. My mind is stuck on the image of my father lying on the floor of his bedroom, too stubborn to call for help.
I understand that stubbornness and the need to prove you're not a burden, that you can still do things yourself, and that you're not completely dependent on the people who love you. I've felt it every day since my surgery.
I text my mother: On my way. Should be there by evening.
She responds immediately: What about your treatment?
Me: Bringing my PT with me.
Mom: The pretty one from your building?
Mom: I'm just asking. See you tonight. I love you.
Me: Yeah. Love you too.
Natalie returns with a small suitcase, and Vincent drives us to the private airfield. The flight is quiet, with neither of us talking much. Natalie reads a book while I stare out the window at the clouds below, trying not to spiral into worst-case scenarios.
When we land in Eau Claire, there's a rental car waiting. I drive us straight to the hospital, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Every mile brings more fear. What if the surgery went wrong? What if there were complications? My father is the heart of our family. He's the one who taught me to skate and who told me I could be anything I wanted if I worked hard enough.
My mother and my sisters need him. I need him. The idea of walking into that hospital and hearing bad news is so terrifying that I push the gas pedal harder, as if I can outrun my own thoughts.
Natalie's hand covers mine on the gear shift.
“Hip fractures from falls are actually very common in MS patients,” she says quietly. “The surgery is straightforward, and recovery rates are good, even with the added complications of his condition.”
I glance at her. “How do you know that?”
“I did some research after you told me about your dad.”
I swallow a lump of saliva in my throat.
“The biggest risks are infection and blood clots, but hospitals monitor for those closely,” she continues. “And the fact that he was healthy enough to attempt the transfer on his own is actually a good sign. It means his baseline strength is still there.”
I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it without taking my eyes off the road. No words seem adequate for what I'm feeling, so I don't try to find them.
We find a parking space near the entrance of the hospital and make our way in. I've spent too much time in places like this over the years, sitting in waiting rooms while doctors explained things I didn't want to hear.
My mother is in the surgical waiting area, slumped in a plastic chair.
“You’re here,” she says, brightening up when she sees us.
She stands, and I fold her into my arms, holding her tight.
“He's out of surgery. They said it went well,” she says.
“Can I see him?”
“He's in recovery. They'll move him to a room soon.” She pulls back and pulls Natalie into a tight hug. “Thank you for coming all this way. It means so much that Ethan has someone looking out for him.”
“He's looking out for you,” Natalie says. “I'm just along for the ride.”
We wait another hour before they move my father to a private room. When we finally get to see him, he's groggy from the anesthesia and his face is pale against the white pillows. He looks older. I hate that.
“Dad.”
His eyes flutter open and focus on me with obvious effort. “Ethan. What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, and I brought my physical therapist with me.” I step aside so he can see Natalie. “Dad, this is Natalie Cross.”
My father's eyes move to her, and despite the painkillers, a small smile tugs at his lips. “Well, well. You brought a pretty girl to distract me from the lecture you're about to give.”
“No lecture,” I say.
“Liar.” He looks at Natalie again. “You're the one who's been putting him back together?”
“I'm trying my best, Mr. Ward.”
“Call me Jim. And good luck. He's stubborn as a mule. Gets it from his mother.”
“I heard that,” Mom says.
“You were meant to.”
Despite everything, I smile. If he's well enough to give my mother a hard time, he's going to be okay.
We stay at the hospital until visiting hours end, then drive to my parents' house. It's a modest two-story home with a wraparound porch and a yard that needs mowing. The wheelchair ramp leads up to the front door, and as we’re walking up the steps, the front door opens.
Lucy bursts out of the front door wearing pajamas.
“Ethan!” She throws herself at me. “I can't believe you're here. How's Dad? Is he okay?”
“He's fine, Lucy. Surgery went well.”
She pulls back, and her attention shifts to Natalie. Her eyes narrow with obvious curiosity. “And who is this?”
“This is Natalie Cross. My physical therapist.”
“It's nice to meet you,” Natalie says. “Ethan's told me a lot about you.”
“Has he? All lies, I'm sure.” Lucy hooks her arm through Natalie's and starts leading her toward the house. “Come inside. You must be exhausted. I'll show you around.”
My sister is the opposite of me in every way. Where I'm quiet and brooding, she's loud and dramatic. Where I keep people at arm's length, she pulls them into her orbit whether they like it or not. She got all of our mother's warmth and sociability, while I got our father's stubborn silence.
Natalie is about to get the full Lucy experience. She won't know what hit her.
I grab our luggage from the trunk and follow them into the house.
The familiar smell of home washes over me. It’s been a while since I was last home. I take in the walls covered with family photos, many of them featuring a much younger version of me in various hockey uniforms.
My mother put us in rooms next to each other. My old bedroom for me, and the guest room for Natalie.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“She seems lovely, Ethan.”
“She is.”
“And she came all this way just to help with your treatment?”
“That's right.”
My mother pats my cheek with a knowing look that says, I don’t buy that for a second. “Dinner is ready. Then tomorrow we'll go see your father, and you can yell at him properly for being an idiot.”
After she leaves, I unpack my bag and sit on my childhood bed, surrounded by faded hockey posters and dusty trophies. Through the thin wall, I can hear Natalie moving around in the next room.
I want her in this room with me.