4. Brayden
brAYDEN
The familiar smell smacked my nostrils as the glass automatic doors slid open—bleach, fear, and coffee that’s been burned half a day too long. I thought I’d stopped noticing it after the first few hours, but walking back through the ICU doors, it hit me again.
I’d barely slept, just closed my eyes long enough to dream of headlights and glass.
Karla’s text had come right as the sun cracked the horizon.
Short, simple words that steadied my shaking hands for the first time since I got the news of the wreck.
I didn’t even realize how much I’d been holding my breath until then.
And now I was back, thankful visiting hours start early.
The elevator dinged and I stepped out into that sterile hush. Nurses moved like apparitions—efficient, soft-footed, kind. Every beep from a monitor felt like a countdown I couldn’t see the clock for.
Myla’s room was exactly as I’d left it, except quieter. She looked smaller somehow under all those blankets. Too pale. Too still. Tubes and tape traced a roadmap across her body, every line a reminder of how close I’d come to losing her.
“Hey, My,” I stuttered, my voice cracking halfway through her name. I dragged the chair closer to her bed, the metal legs shrieking against the tile before I caught myself. “It’s just me again.”
Her eyelids didn’t move. The monitor’s slow, steady rhythm was the only reply.
I rested my elbows on my knees, fingers digging into my scalp. I’d faced off against six-foot-seven defensemen and taken hits that rattled my teeth, but none of it compared to this—the helplessness. You can’t body-check fate. You can’t muscle through a coma.
“Come on, Myla,” I pleaded. “You always hated mornings, but this one’s important. You’ve got to wake up.”
For a long time, there was nothing but the quiet hum of machines. Then, the tiniest twitch of her fingers under the blanket.
“Myla?” I leaned forward so fast the chair squeaked. “Myla, can you hear me?”
Her lips parted, a dry rasp escaping that wasn’t quite sound. Her eyes fluttered, but didn’t open. Panic gripped me—the same sharp, useless kind I’d felt at the crash scene when the paramedics shoved me back and all I could see were flashing lights.
I reached for her hand, careful not to jostle any wires. Her skin was warm, damp. “You’re safe,” I muttered, even though the words felt like lies. Nothing about this felt safe.
A nurse stepped in—not Karla, a day-shift guy with tired eyes and a calm I envied. He checked the monitors, nodding to himself. “She’s still really out of it,” he murmured. “We’ll see more responsiveness soon. Might be best to let her rest a bit longer.”
Rest. The nurse’s voice was gentle, but the word felt cruel. Rest wasn’t peace—it was purgatory.
“Yeah,” I muttered, stepping back as he adjusted one of the drip lines. My throat burned from holding too many words that didn’t matter. “Sure. I’ll be here.”
When he left, the room grew too quiet again. The hum of machines filled the space where my mother’s laugh used to live in my head. I sat back down, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the slow rise and fall of Myla’s chest.
I tried not to picture the accident, but the images came anyway—not memories, but the ones my brain stitched together from police reports, news clips, and the way the coaches’ faces had looked when they pulled me off the ice.
Rain-slick roads. Headlights. My mom’s voice screaming Myla’s name. The sound of tires losing grip. I’d seen enough wreckage photos to fill in the blanks.
I wasn’t there, but that didn’t stop my mind from replaying it like I had been—like I could have changed the ending if I’d just skated faster off the rink, answered my phone sooner, done something.
By the time I’d gotten to the hospital, it was already too late. Mom was gone before I’d even made it through the doors. The words still echoed—fatality on scene—like a sentence carved into my bones.
It should’ve been me. The thought hit, sharp and unrelenting.
If I’d driven her that day instead of fighting with her about her divorce papers…
if I’d offered to help Myla feel better about dad being gone instead of screaming like a child…
maybe they’d both be home right now. Maybe Mom would be dancing around the kitchen in those stupid flannel pajamas, singing Fleetwood Mac off-key.
Instead, my sister was hooked up to machines, and I was sitting here trying to remember the last thing I said to our mother. I wished it was ‘I love you’ but I knew better.
I scrubbed at my face with both hands and forced myself to breathe.
Then I saw her fingers twitch again.
Her head turned slightly toward the sound of my breathing, and when she spoke, it was a whisper so faint it barely stirred the air. “Mom?”
The single word sliced me clean open.
I leaned in, brushing her hair off her clammy forehead, my thumb trembling. “No, My. It’s just me.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Bray…den?”
“Yeah. Hey.” My voice cracked on that one word. “It’s nice to see you awake.”
Before I could say anything else, she started coughing—violent, body-shaking, terrifying.
Alarms chirped and machines blinked, and I froze for half a second before slamming the call button.
A nurse rushed in, checking lines, lifting the bed.
Myla gasped for air between coughs, face pale and twisted in pain.
“It’s okay,” I kept saying, though my throat felt like gravel. “You’re okay, Myla. You’re safe.”
It took a few minutes, but the monitors steadied. She sagged back into the pillow, eyes half-open, glassy and frightened. Sweat beaded along her hairline.
“You were in an accident,” I said softly. “Do you remember anything?”
Her eyes darted around the room, unfocused, wild. The word accident seemed to hang there before it landed.
Then I saw it—the moment memory slammed back into her.
Rain. Tires. The scream.
Her lips trembled. “Mom?”
I swallowed hard, my tongue thick and useless. I wanted to find better words, gentler ones, but none existed. I reached for her hand again and held it like I was anchoring both of us. “I’m so sorry, Myla,” I whispered. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”
Her pupils widened, searching my face, and I knew she already understood. You can see it—the instant a person crosses from hope to horror.
Tears welled in her eyes. Mine weren’t far behind.
“She’s gone,” I said, my heart shattering. “Mom didn’t make it.”
The words hung between us like smoke, and I watched the light in her eyes flicker, then crumble. She turned her face away, sobbing without sound, and all I could do was hold on.
No one teaches you how to break bad news to your own sister. There’s no manual, no checklist. Just pain that shifts shapes and finds new ways to hurt.
I sat there until her breathing slowed again, until her grip on my hand went limp with exhaustion. The nurse peeked in, saw the wreckage on both our faces, and quietly backed out.
I brushed her hair away from her eyes again, that small, useless gesture I’d seen Mom do a hundred times when Myla was a kid. It was the only piece of comfort I knew how to give.
“Sleep, My,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”