Chapter Fifty. Rowan
FIFTY
Rowan
If I thought my mom’s call sobered me completely, rushing down the hall under the bright, unforgiving lights of Memorial Hospital finishes the job.
Worry and fear course through me. Own me. Terrorize me.
The last time I was in a hospital with these feelings was when I was seventeen and thought Cassie had been in a simple fender bender.
How wrong I was.
So tonight I rush down these halls with trepidation nipping at my heels and memories weighing me down that I’ve never been able to shake.
“Mom.” Her name is a croak as I fall into her arms and hold on for dear life.
Because that’s the thing about families. You can hate them. You can love them. You can fall out of like with them. But when it comes down to it, in a moment of crisis, they’re all you have.
The fundamental differences you have are momentarily reduced to petty bullshit.
The unspoken words you wished you said or are glad you didn’t now become trivial.
It’s the blood you share that matters, and the years of history you cling to.
And in this moment when I breathe in my mom’s signature scent of magnolias, I forget how angry I am at her for shoving a wedding down my throat and how furious I’ve been at my dad for handing over the company and family trust to Rhett without regard for me.
So. Many. Things. All are pushed aside, are trivialized, as I look up to see the tears streaming down her cheeks and gauge the worry in her eyes.
“The car ran a red light. Broadsided him. I just, I don’t understand why you’d be driving that fast. He hadn’t even put his seat belt on yet.
” She talks in clipped sentences almost as if she’s trying to relay everything she’s been told.
“His head. And a cut to his femur. Internal bleeding. Huge blood loss. And some broken ribs. In surgery now.”
“Okay. That’s good,” I say. “That means he’s stable enough for surgery.” But I know I could be wrong. I know he could be in there because they have no other option than to open him up. “He’ll be okay, Mom. He has to be. He doesn’t have a choice. He has to be.”
The thought is on repeat as she hugs me, while at the same time footsteps squeak down the hall. Florence says, “Please tell me he’s going to be all right.”
I didn’t even realize she was here. I glance around at the huddle of people, my family, the Williamses, a few others, and struggle to catch my breath.
I step back from my mom’s embrace and let Florence pull her in for a hug so that she can be the comforted instead of feeling like she has to be the comforter.
Plus, I’m not going to lie, this is the first time I’ve faced her since The Vine, and while this is not the time nor the place, it still looms over my head.
“Where’s Rhett?” I ask, realizing he needs to be here. Has to be here.
“He’s here. He and Chad are getting coffee while we wait for the doctors to update us,” my mom says.
I nod, arms crossed over my chest, and begin to walk slowly back and forth in the small waiting room. My phone buzzes nonstop in my pocket, but I don’t pick it up, I don’t look at it. I don’t even care.
No doubt all of Westmore knows and is reaching out to be the first to get the inside scoop. I refuse to give it to them.
Seconds stretch into minutes.
My brother comes back and meets my eyes across the distance, giving me a gentle nod that says he’s still livid with me but right now that anger is suspended.
Chad is right behind him. He begins to give me a hug and then stops when we both raise our arms to the same levels so they bump into each other.
It’s an awkward dance of a hug that ends up with us patting each other on the back.
I stiffen at the kiss he lands on my cheek and when he steps back, everyone suddenly averts their eyes.
Christ. Even in the midst of all this, I’m being watched.
Minutes stretch into an hour.
“He’s doing great. The doctors are repairing the damage—a lacerated liver, a damaged spleen—but he’s losing a lot of blood,” the nurse updates us. “The blood bank is running low. Are there any family members willing to donate blood just in case it’s needed?”
We all volunteer, but it’s Rhett who insists, since I was drinking and our mom is on blood thinners.
One hour melds into the next.
My pacing continues as I move past the nurses’ station, where two nurses are going over charts. Each time I pass by, I get a different snippet.
“It’s not possible. He’s type AB,” the blond nurse says in hushed tones.
I move to the other end of the room.
“There has to be a mistake,” says the one with auburn hair.
“But it’s right here on the printout. The blood type. That means he can’t be—”
“Joanie,” the auburn-haired nurse says, elbowing her when she sees me. She smiles wide to mask surprised eyes. “Hi. Rothschild, right? Can I help you with anything?”
“No. Thank you.” Shit. They know I was listening in. “I’m just wandering while I wait for news on my dad.”
“Oh. Yes.” A quick glance over to her counterpart and an expression I can’t read. “Um, he’s still in surgery. We were, uh—waiting on blood from the blood bank to come in.”
“My brother just donated for him.”
“He—it was, uh—”
“He might need more,” Joanie completes for the auburn-haired nurse.
“Fine. Done. Where do I go? I can donate too,” I offer as that panicked feeling claws its way up my throat. Why does he need so much blood?
“The donation station is just down the hall and to the right,” Joanie says.
“Sure. Yes. Thank you.”
I wander after that.
And wait.
I give blood. I drink coffee. I hold my mom’s hand in silence as the minutes keep ticking by.
“Rowan?” I glance over to my brother, who is staring at me.
“Hmm?”
“He’s going to be okay,” he says in that reassuring, big-brother tone, and yet there is a crack in the last word that has tears flooding my eyes that I blink away.
“I know. But … why are we doing this again? Why are we here again? It feels like Cassie all over again. Just … why again?” I ask, frustrated and angry.
“I know. Believe me, I know,” he murmurs. “There are wrongs I need to right with him.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
“There is … just so much shit I need to say.” He groans in frustration before getting up to walk the same stretch of hallway I have been pacing.
I watch him for a few minutes, missing the little boy I grew up with and wondering how we’ve grown so far apart despite being so close physically in each other’s lives.
Family is weird.
That’s all it comes down to.
My eyes grow heavy. They close. I’m not sure for how long, but when I wake up, I’m tucked up against the side of Chad. His arm is around me and his cheek is resting on the top of my head. I allow myself the grace to sink into the comfort I don’t deserve from him but that he gives me anyway.
Of course it’s him who’s here to comfort me. And doesn’t that make me feel even worse because there’s someone else I want here instead.
“It’s going to be okay, Row,” he says softly. “He’s going to be okay.”
“Rothschild?” the doctor in blue scrubs asks as he walks down the hallway, untying the top strings of his face mask so it falls to his chest. He reaches up and pulls his scrub cap off.
“How is he?” we all say in some form or another as we stand and move en masse toward him.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Massey. I’ll cut to the chase because it’s been a long night for all of us.
He was in rough shape. Worse than we thought if I’m honest. There was a lot of internal damage that took us some time to find and repair and then find again.
But for now, I think we have him stabilized. He’s critical but stable.”
“What does that mean?” Rhett asks, taking the lead for the family as he steps forward with his arms crossed over his chest.
“That means the next twenty-four hours are critical. What he does during those will tell us most likely how he’ll fare.
At this point, I think he will pull through.
That doesn’t mean there might not be any touch-and-go moments—the damage we repaired was extensive—or that we might have to go back in and do some more cleanup, but for now, I’m pleased with how well he’s responding. ”
“Long-term prognosis?” Rhett asks as my mom clamps down on my hand with both of hers.
“That’s tough to say right now. We’ll know more in the coming hours.
” He looks down at his surgical cap he’s worrying with his hands.
“My prediction? It’ll be a long road to recovery.
With his age, his previous heart issues, and the very nature of his injuries, he won’t be hopping up out of the bed and jogging home anytime soon, but I do think with time and a lot of rest that a full recovery is possible. ”
“Oh, thank God,” my mom says and sags against me in relief.
“But like I said, that’s a precautionary prognosis. I can’t promise anything,” the doctor says.
“Of course,” I say. “Thank you so much for everything. We’re so grateful.”
“When can we see him?” my mom asks.
“We’re still finishing up in the OR. As soon as he’s set up in the ICU, you can visit for a little bit. One person at a time.”