Chapter 13
Collins
I was finishing my rounds when I noticed the movement in the next room—Anna’s husband stirring. His eyes shot open, still heavy and disoriented. He blinked rapidly, then sat up slightly, gripping the sheets.
“Where is she? I want to see her!” His voice cracked, half panic, half desperation. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, muscles trembling, clearly trying to get up.
Tim moved quickly, placing a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey, take it easy. You just woke up. Anna’s stable, but she’s still in ICU. You can’t go in there yet.”
Two nurses stepped in to help, guiding him back onto the bed, holding him steady. His chest rose and fell rapidly; fear and worry painted every line of his face. “I… I need to see her! She can’t be alone! Tell me where she is!”
I stepped closer, the quiet authority in my tone forcing a pause in the rising chaos. Tim looked over his shoulder at me, relief flickering in his eyes.
“Dr. Collins,” he said softly, “he just woke up… he wants Anna.”
I nodded, assessing the situation. He was too emotional, too unsteady to see her directly. I met Tim’s gaze. “Take him. But only let him peek through the glass. He’s not ready for the ICU yet—he could destabilize both himself and the staff.”
Tim gave a brief, understanding nod and guided the nurses as they wheeled him toward the observation window.
I followed for observation. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, hands splayed, eyes searching the dim room beyond.
Monitors beeped softly, shadows of machines reflected against the glass.
Until he saw her through the window. Anna was still pale and motionless.
His hand trembled as he reached toward her, fingers grazing the glass.
He swallowed hard and whispered, “I need you to wake up.”
I watched the scene unfold, feeling the weight of both the medical and emotional stakes. Tim kept a steady hand on his back, whispering gentle reassurances.
I walked beside Tim as the nurses wheeled Michael back to his room, his shoulders tense as if his body had woken before his mind had fully caught up. Once he was settled, Tim stopped a passing nurse and gave quiet instructions.
“Please notify the family that Mr. Miller is awake,” he said. “They can come through.”
The nurse nodded and disappeared down the hall.
I left Tim with his patient and headed toward the call room, the familiar hum of the hospital settling around me again.
The door closed softly behind me as I dropped into a chair, pulling up the charts I still needed to finish.
Notes. Imaging follow-ups. Routine documentation—the mechanical part of the job that usually helped me reset.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Tim: Lunch?
Me: Okay. Meet at the elevator.
Tim: Give me ten minutes.
I wrapped up the last note, saved the file, and headed out.
Ten minutes later, Tim and I were walking into the hospital café, the smell of coffee and fried food a stark contrast to antiseptic corridors and ICU monitors. We grabbed trays and settled on something quick—nothing fancy, just fuel.
We barely sat down when Chantele spotted us. She nudged Penelope and another nurse to join us at our table, pulling up chairs as if this were a long-standing ritual.
“So,” Chantelle said, unwrapping her sandwich, eyes already curious. “How’s he doing?”
“Still traumatized,” I said, glancing at Tim.
Tim nodded. “Understandably. His family arrived just before I left. Parents, sister… and that one friend.”
Chantelle paused mid-bite. “That friend,” she said slowly. “Who is she, exactly?”
Tim looked up. “Veronica. Apparently, the bride’s friend.”
Penelope frowned immediately. “The bride’s friend?” she echoed. “That’s strange.”
I leaned back slightly, listening as they put pieces together.
“I’ve never seen her visit the bride,” Chantelle said. “Not once. She’s been camped at the groom’s bedside since day one.”
“Same,” Penelope added. “Every shift she’s always with him.”
There was a brief silence at the table as the implication settled, unspoken but heavy. I kept my expression neutral, watching Tim more than the others. He shrugged, dismissive.
“People cope differently,” he said, brushing it aside. “It’s not our place to analyse it.”
Then, gradually lighter, he looked down at his tray. “So—what are we actually eating here?”
The conversation shifted, but the unease lingered beneath it, like a note that hadn’t quite resolved. I took a sip of my coffee, my thoughts already drifting back upstairs—to ICU, to Anna, and to all the things that didn’t sit right, no matter how much we pretended not to notice.
I went back to check on Anna.
She was always my first stop in the mornings and the last room I passed before ending my shift—plus the in-between visits I never wrote down.
I told myself it was efficiency. Familiarity.
Nothing more. Still, the pattern had settled into me so quietly that it felt less like a decision and more like instinct.
The ICU monitors greeted me with their steady rhythm, unchanged. Stable.
Her hand lay twisted against the sheet, fingers curled in on themselves.
I adjusted it gently, easing her palm open and resting it naturally by her side, the way a sleeping person would choose if they were aware enough to move.
The motion was slow and careful not to startle her, even though I knew she wouldn’t feel it.
Her skin was warm. Alive.
My eyes moved to her face, then to the faint parting of her lips. Dry and slightly cracked at the corners. I frowned, already cataloguing it in my head.
Lip care, I told myself. Prevention.
I straightened the blanket, smoothed a crease near her shoulder, then checked her vitals again—numbers steady, unremarkable. Good. Exactly what I wanted them to be.
As I turned to leave, my eyes flicked back to her mouth once more. Dry lips didn’t belong on a chart, but the note stayed with me anyway, lodged somewhere between clinical awareness and something harder to define.
Just as I was about to leave the room, the door opened, and her father stepped in, her sister beside him. I paused and offered a polite nod, stepping back to give them space.
“How is she doing?” her father asked quietly, his gaze fixed on Anna.
I gave him a measured update—her vitals were stable, no neurological changes, still unresponsive. I kept my tone careful, honest, without stripping away hope. He listened intently, nodding as if committing every word to memory.
We started talking about Anna, and her father began sharing little details about her childhood. “She always loved crystal beads or anything that looked like diamonds,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Whenever I could, I’d bring her some.”
While we spoke, I noticed her sister move toward the bedside table. She placed a small teddy bear next to the potted plant, adjusting it so it faced the bed. Then she took out a small bottle of lotion and a tube of lip balm, setting them neatly beside each other.
She looked up at me and signed something softly.
Her father glanced at her hands, then back at me.
“She’s asking if it’s all right to apply these,” he said gently. “For her lips and hands.”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “That’s perfectly fine.”
Nancy nodded, uncapped the lip balm, and carefully traced it across Anna’s lips. Then she warmed a bit of lotion between her palms and gently worked it into Anna’s hands, smoothing each finger with practiced tenderness.
She signed again, her movements smaller this time.
“She says Anna never forgets to use lotion,” her father translated, his voice wavering just slightly. “And that she hates dry lips.”
The simplicity of it landed harder than I expected.
When Nancy finished, she rested Anna’s hand back on the blanket and lingered there for a moment, her fingers still touching her sister’s, as if reluctant to let go.
I stood quietly, giving them the space they deserved. These weren’t medical acts—no charts, no protocols—just love filling the silence where words no longer could.
As I turned toward the door, I took note of the items now gathered at the bedside: the teddy bear, the plant, the lotion, the lip balm.
Small things.
But suddenly, they felt essential.