Chapter Thirty-Eight Callum
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Callum
It's been exactly fifty-four minutes since Sophie left my arms. I count because that's the only thing I can focus on in this suffocating waiting room.
People keep coming in and out. The storm still rages outside.
I hear complaints about the temperature dropping, enough to create a slick sludge on the roads.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except that Sophie is somewhere in this building, suffering, fighting for her life—and it's all my fault.
The wonderful memories of the weekend flash across my eyes like a horror movie. What was so sweet has turned sour, now knowing that at any point in our day, she could have come in contact with the germs ravaging her body.
I was careless. I didn't consider whether I should let the love of my life—with a compromised immune system from the chemotherapy she endures every other Tuesday—be exposed to so many people at the zoo, the museum, or the hotel.
I lived in a fantasy world for a weekend, and now reality crashes in. Sophie's paying the price. She trusted me, and I failed her. The guilt of moving from happiness to fear is suffocating.
I glance at my mom, sitting in the chair next to me. One hand is clutching a clear quartz, the other rests on my shoulder, while her eyes are closed in meditation. I briefly wonder if this is how she felt with my dad, and then realize that she never even had the chance.
He was gone before they got to the hospital.
The guilt claws at my stomach, a tearing, violent feeling that makes me wonder how embarrassed I'd feel if I vomited right on the floor of this waiting room in front of all these people.
Probably not embarrassed, to be quite honest. I think I'm past that point.
All I feel is fear and guilt, and all I need is for Sophie to be okay.
If she wakes up and hates me putting her life in danger, screams at me, pushes me away... I wouldn't even care because she'd be alive, she'd be breathing.
I'd take it all if it meant she'd be healthy.
I glance down at the watch on my arm—fifty-nine minutes. Almost a full hour without my girl, and it feels like I haven't seen her in days. I link my hands behind my head, pressing hard and searching for pain, a punishment for my carelessness.
I press harder when it's not enough, gritting my teeth until they could crack, and I curl my fingers to dig my blunt nails into my skin.
"Callum," my mom murmurs, reaching her hand to grab mine and gently unknotting them. "You will not find relief through pain."
She's right. Of course, she's right, but I don't want relief.
I want to hurt on the outside as much as I'm hurting within.
This bone-deep fear is gutting me, and I'll sit in it because that's what I deserve.
I deserve this terror. I deserve worse. I want to claw at my chest, and I want to roar with frustration at myself.
I want to feel the depth of this terror because Sophie is hurting, and I can do nothing to help her.
And it's all my fucking fault.
"Callum!"
My head snaps up at the voice, cutting through the hum of the waiting room, and I see Tonya rushing over to me.
She's drenched from the rain in her leather jacket, black jeans, and her blonde hair plastered to her head.
Her icy blue eyes lock onto mine, and slung over her shoulder is a large black duffel—one of my duffels from my closet.
Behind her, Atticus and Jane walk hand in hand, trying to keep up with Tonya's fast pace.
A quick look at my mom and her nod confirms that she called Tonya. I stand up, and Tonya drops the bag to the floor and opens her arms for me. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting of tears as my sister—in all the ways that count—holds me.
"It's okay," Tonya's usual smoke-roughened voice is warm and soothing as her hand rubs my back. "Our girl is too fucking strong, she's going to be just fine."
"You didn't see her, Ton." My own voice is shaky as the images of a sick Sophie assault my mind.
Her tears and begging me not to let her go, her sudden silence in the car ride over, her unresponsiveness on that gurney, and her stillness when they wheeled her away. "You didn't see how bad she was..."
"I don't need to," Tonya replies with confidence. "I know she's going to be just fine, Callum. She's too tough to be taken out by a cold."
A large, warm hand lands on my shoulder, and I look over to see Atticus standing there with Jane under his other arm. Both are smiling at me, softly and with concern. "Wait, why are you guys here?"
"Tonya called me, asked if we could use my truck," Atticus explains.
His work truck could be categorized as a tank, and he usually volunteers to plow the roads when it snows. I'm sure it tore through this storm smoothly, but just the fact that they came out in this awful weather for Sophie, for me, fills me with a gratitude that almost brings me to my knees.
My eyes glance over to Jane in confusion. That explains Atticus, but...
"Oh, I was already with Atticus," Jane says simply with a small smile.
Despite everything, I still chuckle when I see Atticus's cheeks and ears redden at her words and the implication of them being together at his house. He glances down warmly at Jane, and I see his arm tighten around her shoulders, tender and protective.
I can't wait to tell Sophie, the thought hits me instinctively, only for reality to crash back down on me.
Tonya pulls back, her hands gripping my biceps, eyes narrowing. "What's really going on? How is she?"
"I don't know. They took her back to stabilize her—" I glance down at my watch —"Sixty-four minutes ago.
" She was... bad. She wasn't feeling well when we left the hotel, but the storm hit, and I just wanted to get us off the roads.
She was coughing, sniffling, and then her fever—god, it just spiked at my apartment. She passed out on the way here."
I run my hands through my hair and pull hard, squeezing my eyes shut. The pressure bites, but grants me no relief.
Oliver said even a cold is dangerous right now because of the chemo.
We were out all weekend. I took her out like all was well, like she's not battling cancer and getting poison pumped into her to kill cancer cells.
Her immune system is weak. She probably caught a cold at the zoo or museum.
God, I'm such an idiot. I should have brought her—"
"She's here," Atticus cuts in quietly, voice low and steady. "She's getting help."
Unfortunately, those calm words only pour gasoline on the fire raging inside of me.
"It's my fault she's even here in the first place! Me! It's my fault!" I snap, my voice exploding from me louder than I intend. In the waiting room, heads turn, people whisper. "My carelessness, my fucking stupidity..."
"Callum," my mom says, her voice firm and slicing through my anger.
"You can't dwell on the should-haves, Cal," Atticus keeps his voice level and his eyes soft. "It's just going to torture you."
"Yeah? Well, maybe I deserve—"
"Oh, come on, Callum," Tonya snaps, unimpressed. "You didn't purposefully take Sophie out to get her sick. You gave her a day of normalcy and fun in the middle of a fucking nightmare. You gave her peace."
"At the expense of her health," I push out through gritted teeth. Tonya inhales, her mouth open and ready to argue—but Jane's soft voice cuts into the space first.
"I actually read that colds usually take one to three days to incubate in a body before symptoms start showing," Jane's voice is gentle, but confident.
"She could have caught it anywhere, even from one of us.
But even if she did catch it at the zoo or the museum, that doesn't make it your fault.
She was texting us yesterday, sending pictures of you both. She was so happy."
Jane offers a gentle smile. "You made her so happy. I don't think she has regrets. I know I wouldn't."
My mouth opens to respond, and Atticus's eyes flash at me, dark and dangerous, silently warning me not to snap at Jane the way I snapped at him.
I wouldn't. I couldn't. Not at Jane, who's so gentle and is giving me the logical words that I need right now.
Sophie would be angry at me, too. She loves everyone in the book club, but she and the girls have formed a special bond.
"Thank you, Jane," I tell her, and she nods at me.
Her fingers twist nervously in front of her in that way where I know she has something to say, and is working out the words in her head first. That's the thing about Jane, she's always so intentional with her words because it's usually hard for her to speak up in front of other people.
I don't know much about her past, but I do know it wasn't good, and that she was a little more than broken when she first came to the book club.
It took her weeks to say anything at all.
Atticus's presence always soothes her, though, as it does now.
His big arm remains around her shoulders, and his hand is rubbing her arm in encouragement.
She meets his eyes for a moment, and it seems to give her the courage she needs because she takes a deep breath, "Blaming ourselves for the ones we love hurting doesn't accomplish anything.
It's just a way for us to make ourselves feel better," Jane says, eyes flickering to hold eye contact with me for a beat before flickering away.
"Punishing yourself isn't control—it's surrender. Sophie needs you to be steady. You cannot be steady while drowning in guilt."
The words strike me like a bolt of lightning because she's right.
What will sitting here wallowing in my own guilt accomplish besides making me feel better for being miserable?
Why not channel that energy into positivity, action, and movement?
Sophie's sick, I cannot change that, but I can focus on her recovering, on making things easier for her when she does feel better—because she will, she must.
There's no other possibility beyond that.