29. Twenty-nine
Twenty-nine
“Hank. Honey, are you okay?” My heels click loudly across the tiled hospital floor as I hurry into his room. Breathless.
“I tried to hide in the kitchen cabinet with the wineglasses,” he says with a small smile. His red hair sticks up in forty-two directions as his small body lays in a bed under a blue blanket. His face, so pale it’s almost yellow, makes his freckles stand out like floating stars on his face. Across his forehead, eight stitches hold together an angry gash.
“Oh gosh, kid. I guess we never covered not crawling into wineglass cabinets in our list of house rules.” I let out a relieved and watery laugh as I run my fingers gently through his hair.
I glance around the tiny hospital room. Ty and Lyra are on a sofa, blanket draped over them as they sleep, poster above them of a beach scene. Camp’s in a chair, next to the bed, holding a picture book. The Going to Bed Book by Sandra Boynton. If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d laugh—Hank’s favorite.
Camp’s jaw pops, shoulders tense—collar of his shirt smeared with blood—as he studies me, taking in my clothes, my face. The short attention I gave my reflection in the rearview mirror showed mascara that I rarely wear smudging under my eyes like a cracked-out raccoon.
“Camp, I’m so sorry—I had my phone on silent—I came as soon as I saw. I tried calling,” I explain, keeping my voice low enough not to wake Ty and Lyra.
He nods, forearms resting on the hospital bed as he looks me over.
“I was with Scotty,” I say, half lying. Hating myself for it. Looking down at my clothes, hers and mine, all of which feel ridiculous in the moment, and shrink into my own selfishness. I was in a gallery with photos—flirting with Reed—while Hank’s head was being sliced open. And I know how these things are, an inch in either direction, and this could have been so much worse.
He nods, squeezing Hank’s arm. “Hey, buddy, Mom and I are goin’ to go in the hall and let you rest a few minutes. Doctor should be in real soon, and then we can go home.”
Hank smiles, takes the book from him and starts flipping through the pages. Mouthing the words we all know by heart.
We click the door closed behind us and step into the hall. The lights are dim and buzz overhead. A couple nurses check clipboards and give courteous smiles as they walk by.
“God, Camp,” I say with a heavy exhale, dropping my forehead to the wall, my body trembling. “I-I-I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I should have never gone out. I-I-I mean, thank God you were there. Or Lyra. Or someone.” I’m crying now, fully. Sobs of relief, regret, and guilt. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough, but—how could I do this? Like what kind of mother needs twelve missed calls?”
His palm finds my back, and it’s an instant comfort. Making me cry harder. His grounding touch one I didn’t know I needed.
He pulls me to him, familiar arms around me, rubbing circles across my back. Hushing softly into my ear until my sobs against his chest turn to hiccups then normal breaths.
I push away from him, wiping my eyes, laughing softly. “I look like a mess.”
“You’re beautiful.”
I lean my forehead against his chest before snapping my head back. “Your face!”
He rubs a hand across his now-bare upper lip, color flushing his cheeks.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I thought a change would be good. Shut Jack up.”
He’s handsome, devastatingly so, as he holds me, shy look on his face.
I slip my arms around his waist, drop my cheek to his chest, and let the soothing sound of his pulse melt me into him.
“What did you and Scotty do?” he asks, depth of his voice vibrating from his body to mine.
“We went to the art gallery. They had a show.” I keep my cheek pressed against him as my half-truth gnaws through me.
His chest rises and falls in our silence.
“You have fun?”
The answer is one that’s too big and complex for words. I had fun . . . but Hank got hurt. I did something big . . . but he’ll never know that. I loved being someone else . . . but missed all of this.
“I did,” I finally say, thinking of Scotty’s annoyingly perceptive, You can be more than one thing, Joo. “Maybe sometime we co—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Cannon?” The doctor approaches with a white coat and black hair. His friendly face smiles as he reaches for the handle to Hank’s room. “Let’s get you folks home.”
With tight smiles and nods, we follow him into the room, all my unsaid words left in the hall.