Chapter 32 Blair
BLAIR
The neurological ICU is a maze of beeping machines, hushed conversations, and the antiseptic smell that coats everything in hospitals. I've been sitting in this same uncomfortable chair for ten hours now, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Danny's chest.
The doctors removed the breathing tube this morning—a good sign, they said. His brain swelling has gone down significantly, and all the monitors show stable vitals. But he hasn't woken up yet, and every hour that passes feels like an eternity.
Mom sits on the other side of Danny's bed, her hand wrapped around his like she's trying to anchor him to consciousness through sheer force of will. She hasn't slept since I arrived, despite John's gentle attempts to convince her to rest in the family lounge.
John himself dozed fitfully in the reclining chair by the window for a few hours, but he's awake now, making his third trip to the cafeteria to bring us coffee.
Danny looks smaller here, his face pale against the white pillowcase.
There's a bandage covering half his head where they drilled the burr holes to relieve the pressure, and the bruising around his eyes has deepened to a shade of purple-black.
But he's breathing on his own, and Dr. Marshall assured us that's significant progress.
I keep thinking about our phone conversation, about how excited he was about baseball practice.
I've been so stupid. I spent months complaining about having nothing meaningful to do while Danny was here living each day with genuine joy and wanting me to be a part of it.
He finds wonder in batting averages and grocery store efficiency protocols.
He forms deep friendships and he's never questioned whether his life has meaning—he just lives it, fully and authentically.
"Blair," Mom says softly. "You should eat something. John brought back those sandwiches from the cafeteria earlier but you haven’t touched them."
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off Danny's face. "I'm not hungry."
"But you haven’t eaten anything since you arrived and –"
"I'm fine, Mom." I sigh. "I’m sorry. I should have been here more. I kept saying I'd visit, kept putting it off. What kind of sister does that make me?"
"It makes you human," Mom says. "You had things to do, a life in New York. And Danny never doubted that you love him. Not for a single second."
She’s wrong. I didn’t have a life. I became complacent, embarrassed about my lack of direction.
Danny used to look up to me. I told him I fought cybercrime and he saw me as some superhero.
I used to tell him about the online pirates we caught, saving our clients from imminent attacks.
But after we sold the company, I had nothing to tell him about. Nothing to make him proud.
John returns with three fresh cups of coffee. He's a good man, my stepfather—steady and kind, the sort of person who shows up when needed. He married Mom when Danny was young, but he never tried to replace our father. Instead, he just quietly became the person we could depend on.
"Any changes?" he asks, settling back into his chair.
"Still nothing," I say, accepting the coffee with a grateful nod, then look up when Dr. Marshall appears in the doorway. She's maybe in her early thirties, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and the sort of calm competence that's reassuring in a crisis.
"Good morning," she says, approaching Danny's bed with a tablet in hand. "How are we all holding up?"
"Tired," Mom admits. "Please tell me he’s going to wake up."
Dr. Marshall checks the monitors, makes notes on her tablet, then lifts one of Danny's eyelids to shine a small flashlight. "His vital signs continue to look good. Brain pressure is normal, no signs of additional bleeding or complications. The swelling has decreased significantly."
She checks a few more readings, makes additional notes, then turns back to us. "I know this is difficult, but try to stay positive. Talk to him—patients often hear more than we realize, even when they’re unconscious."
After she leaves, the silence settles over us again.
I've been talking to Danny sporadically since yesterday, feeling awkward about one-sided conversations but following the doctor's advice.
I told him about the wedding, about the helicopter ride that probably shocked half of rural Maryland.
I told him I was sorry for not visiting more, that I love him, that he needs to wake up so I can take him to an Orioles game like I promised.
But mostly I just sat here, watching and waiting and thinking about how much I've taken Danny for granted.
My phone has been buzzing intermittently—missed calls from Liv, text messages I haven't opened. I should respond, should explain what happened, but I don't know where to begin.
I'm terrified of her reaction. I know she’ll feel betrayed. Again. Like she did with Andy. I never wanted to be another person who lied to her, another reason for her to lose faith in people's capacity for honesty. I didn't want her to find out like this.
I'm lost in these thoughts when I hear a sound from the bed—something between a sigh and a moan. My head snaps up, and I see Danny's eyelids flutter.
"Danny?" Mom leans forward, her voice tight with hope.
His eyes open, unfocused at first, blinking against the fluorescent lighting. He tries to speak but his voice comes out as a croak, his throat dry.
"Water," John says immediately, reaching for the cup with a straw that the nurses left on the bedside table. "Small sips, buddy."
Danny accepts the straw gratefully. After a few careful sips, he turns his head toward me, and recognition dawns in his eyes.
"Blair. You came," he mumbles.
"Of course I came," I say. "You scared the hell out of all of us."
He blinks slowly, processing. "My head hurts."
"I bet it does," Mom says, stroking his hand. "You had surgery, sweetheart. But you're going to be okay." Her voice wavers on the last word, and she turns her face away, pressing her free hand against her mouth. Her shoulders shake once before she steadies herself.
Danny's brow furrows as he tries to piece together what happened. "Surgery? Did I... did I do something wrong?"
"No, honey," Mom says quickly. "It was an accident. You and Tommy were playing baseball, and the bat accidentally hit your head. It wasn't anyone's fault."
"Is Tommy okay?" Danny asks, because of course that's his first concern. "Is he sad?"
"Tommy's fine," John assures him. "He's been calling every few hours to check on you."
Danny nods, then turns back to me. "How was the wedding?"
His question makes me laugh—a sound somewhere between relief and hysteria. Here he is, barely conscious after brain surgery, and he's asking about Emma's wedding like we're continuing our casual conversation from yesterday.
"The wedding was... It was fun."
"Did you dance?" he asks, his words slightly slurred but coherent.
"I danced," I admit. "A few times, actually."
Danny's face lights up with genuine delight. "With the bride?"
"No, buddy. With my date."
"Date?" Danny's eyes open a little wider. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
I feel Mom and John's curious gazes on me, but this isn't the time or place for that conversation.
"Why don't we get the doctor in here, buddy?" I say instead, reaching for the call button. "Let's see how she thinks you're doing."
Danny nods and smiles. "Will you stay?"
The question lands somewhere unguarded, and I swallow down the lump in my throat. "Yes," I say, squeezing his hand. "I'll stay as long as you want."