Chapter 39
CHAPTER 39
RAVEN
T he hospital corridor feels colder than the icy wind outside, the fluorescent lights harsh and sterile. I push open the door to my father’s room after taking forever to find him, and the sight of him lying pale and still in the hospital bed squeezes the breath out of my chest. My mom is sitting in the corner, her phone in hand, concluding a call. She glances up at me, her face softening, but there’s exhaustion in her eyes.
I don’t say anything, my throat is tight with emotion, as I hurry to his bedside. He’s asleep, his chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. I lean over and gently press a kiss to his forehead, the warmth of his skin a small reassurance. Tears well up in my eyes as I lean closer to him. I’m so tired and so cold, but seeing him like this reminds me how much I love him, how much I miss him, and how desperately I need him to be okay.
My mom comes to my side, her gaze sweeping over me. Her lips press into a thin line of disapproval as she takes in my outfit—or lack thereof. “Raven,” she says softly but with an edge of exasperation, “why would you come out dressed like this? It’s freezing outside.”
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“Sit down,” she murmurs, guiding me to a chair. I obey, too drained to argue, and sink into the seat. She sighs and steps out of the room briefly, returning moments later with a blanket. She drapes it over my shoulders and tucks it around me, her hands warm against my chilled skin.
“Tell me about Dad,” I manage, my voice a rasp. My chest aches with every word.
“Look at you. You’re not well, Raven. I don’t know why you came here like this. It’s not like you can do anything for him.”
I start coughing and she looks at me, her face lined with worry and exasperation. Then she leaves the room again, and when she comes back, she’s holding a paper cup of steaming tea. I wrap my hands around it, the heat sinking into my fingers and chasing away some of the cold.
She perches on the edge of the bed, watching me for a moment before telling me about my father’s calcium levels dropping to dangerously low levels. “It started with muscle spasms—his hands cramped so badly he couldn’t move them. Then, earlier today, he collapsed. The doctors ran some tests and found his levels were critically low. They’ve started him on supplements and are keeping him under observation.”
“Will he be okay?” I ask, my voice trembling. I need her to say yes, even if it’s a lie.
“They’re optimistic,” she replies, coming over to me and brushing a strand of hair from my face. “His levels are improving, and they’re confident he’ll stabilize with the treatment. But it scared him, Raven. It scared me.”
I nod, tears spilling over again. “I should’ve been here,” I whisper, guilt clawing at my chest, not going to a stupid party.
Her hand squeezes mine. “You’re here now, sweetheart. That’s what matters.”
I glance back at my father, his face is serene despite the machines beeping softly around him. The sight brings no comfort, only the sharp ache of fear and love tangled together. All I can think about is how fragile he looks, how close he came to... I can’t even finish the thought. I won’t.
“He looks so weak,” I whisper.
“He is,” she admits. “But he’s fighting back. He’s strong, Raven, and so are we.”
The words are meant to reassure me, but right at this moment, I don’t feel strong at all. I sip the tea, the warmth doing little to soothe the tight cold knot in my chest.
“I just want him to be okay,” I say desperately, my voice breaking. I can’t even begin to explain how impossible it would be for me to deal with his loss at this time in my life.
My mom’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “He will be,” she says.
And I cling to the words, fragile as they are, like a lifeline.
My mom adjusts the blanket around my shoulders as if I’m still the child she used to bundle up during snowstorms. Her lips press into a thin line as she studies me, and I know she sees past the surface.
“I just spoke to Earl,” she says softly, the words making my heart jump. “He was worried about you running out the way you did.”
I glance at her sharply, blinking in surprise. “Earl? You spoke to Earl?” I repeat, the name heavy in my mouth.
She nods, watching me closely. “He called to make sure you were okay.”
The air between us feels charged, and I don’t know what to do with it. My thoughts are too scattered, my emotions fraying at the edges. Why would he call? Why would he care? My surprise quickly gives way to anger. After last night, what right does he have to act concerned?
I shake my head sharply as if I can physically push him out of my mind. “Of course, I’m all right,” I mutter, dismissing her words. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
Her brows knit together, her concern deepening. “Is everything okay between you two?”
“Yeah, everything is fine.” My tone is clipped, leaving no room for further discussion. “I just want to focus on Dad, right now, Mom.”
She doesn’t look convinced but lets it drop, instead pulling a chair closer to the bed and settling in beside me. The minutes stretch on, filled with the quiet hum of machines and the occasional murmur of nurses outside. I barely register the passage of time, too consumed with watching my father’s face and listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
I must have fallen asleep in the chair because I’m startled awake by the dull vibration of my phone on the bedside table. My pulse quickens, and for a moment, I’m disoriented. I grab it, squinting at the screen in the dim light. Earl.
The name flashes like a beacon, and I stare at it, debating. My fingers hover over the screen, but the anger simmering in my chest holds me back. I let it ring, the sound cutting through the stillness like a reprimand.
Minutes later, another vibration—a text. I hesitate before opening it, my breath catching when I see his message.
I’m outside your father’s room. I don’t want to intrude on your parents’ privacy. Let me know if it’s okay for me to come in or if you’d rather step out.
The words sink in strangely, and I have to read them again just to be sure. He’s here? My mind sluggishly tries to process what this means. He came all this way? Why? For what? The shock of it nearly eclipses my anger at him, but not entirely. I set the phone down, staring at it like it’s something foreign.
I glance at the closed door, half expecting him to walk through it despite his message. The thought makes my stomach twist. I’m furious that he’s here, furious that he thinks he can insert himself into this moment after everything that’s happened. But I can’t deny the flicker of something else beneath the anger. A small weak flicker of hope.
I pull the blanket tighter around me. My mom stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. Just for a few moments, I focus on my father, on the sound of his breathing, on anything but the man waiting outside the door.