Six #3
Lark shifted closer, her warm body pressed against Trevor’s leg.
“Thank you for that,” Helena whispered, her voice catching. “I didn’t know.”
Trevor had never told her that was his first glimpse at the man he idolized.
He had been his hero, saving Mom. His chest ached, a mountain creeping into his throat, choking off the words he wanted to say.
He watched as Helena leaned down and brushed the wisps of gray hair back from his mother’s brow, tucking the blanket snugly around her thin frame.
Lark’s dark eyes followed the movement, her head tilting slightly, a witness to the unspoken bond forming between them.
As her coughing intensified and a nurse entered the room, Helena looked at Trevor. “I’ll just be outside.”
Grateful for Helena’s sensitivity toward Mom and her dignity, he nodded. After the nurse helped to ease the coughing spell, she motioned Trevor to follow her out.
In the hallway, the harsh overhead lights washing his skin in an unforgiving white, the door clicked softly shut behind him and the nurse gestured to a small alcove near the nurses’ station, where a worn leather couch and a few creaking chairs sat beneath the hum of fluorescent lights.
Helena, he noted, was standing near a vending machine down the hall.
“I wanted to give you a quick update on your mother’s condition,” she began, her voice low but firm.
“She’s entering the final stages of COPD.
You might notice her becoming more confused, her oxygen levels dropping despite the supplemental support.
There will be more coughing, more breathlessness, and eventually…
she may struggle to eat or drink. The body starts to conserve energy, shutting down piece by piece. ”
Trevor’s stomach twisted, his jaw clenching as the nurse spoke, each word cutting deep, sharp as a blade. He’d seen death before, felt its cold breath in the smoky haze of a house fire, in the crumpled metal of a car wreck. But this felt different. This was his mother.
“She’s also likely to experience more anxiety as her body fights for air,” the nurse continued, her eyes softening as she noticed his clenched fists. “I know this is difficult, Mr. Slate, but being there for her, talking to her, even just holding her hand…it means more than you know.”
Trevor forced himself to nod, his throat thick, his mind racing. She didn’t need to say it, but he heard it anyway.
She’s dying. Soon.
“Thank you,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, raw around the edges. Trevor had been there for Mom all these years and he wouldn’t leave her side now. He’d be with her to the bitter end.
The nurse reached out, squeezing his arm gently before returning to the room. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, the distant, muted sounds of the nurses’ station buzzing in his ears.
When he reentered the room, the steady hum of the oxygen machine seemed louder, each puff and click a countdown.
He sank back into the chair beside his mother’s bed, his hand reaching for hers, fingers threading through her weak, papery skin.
She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, the corners crinkling as she forced a smile.
“Trevor,” she whispered.
“I’m here, Mom,” he said, holding back his grief.
She squeezed his hand. “I know you worry. Always have. But you need to stop. I’m ready when the time comes. I’ve made my peace.”
Trevor’s throat constricted as she reached up with her free hand, brushing a trembling, cool palm against his cheek.
“You’ve been a good son. Better than I deserve.
I never wanted to hold you back. Never wanted my sickness to keep you from living.
” She paused, her eyes drifting toward the small window, the strip of gray sky visible through the half-drawn blinds.
“You need a good woman, Trevor. Someone who’ll stand by you, strong and steady.
Someone you can lean on, like you’ve let me lean on you all these years. ”
Trevor’s heart pounded, the ache in his chest flaring.
He’d built his life around her care, every decision bending to the magnitude of her illness, every relationship strained by the constant push and pull of his responsibilities.
He didn’t even know who he was outside of this room, this role as her son, her caregiver.
He’d never had the space to figure it out.
What kind of man would he be, stripped of this purpose, this duty? He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
“I don’t want you to be alone,” she continued, her voice softer now, her fingers trembling in his.
“God has a plan for you, Trevor. I trust Him. I trust you. When my time comes, you let me go. You let me go, and you live. Promise me. Promise me you’ll put you and Helena first. Oh, I see it in your eyes, son.
And I see it in hers, too. Maybe neither of you realize or are running from it, but it’s there. You care deeply for one another.”
Trevor closed his eyes, resting his forehead against his mother’s hand, the muffled hum of the oxygen concentrator blending with the steady comfort of Lark’s head resting beside him.
“I love you, Mom,” he choked out, his voice breaking.
Mom’s fingers flexed weakly in his grasp, a final, whisper-soft acknowledgment before her hand relaxed, her shallow breaths evening out as she drifted into a light, fitful sleep.
Trevor remained there, head bowed, his shoulders trembling. As much as he feared being alone, he feared more the hollow ache that would follow, the question of who he’d be without the only purpose he’d ever known.
Trevor closed the door behind him, leaning back against the cool metal, his chest heaving. The hallway felt too bright, his skin prickling. Helena still stood at the far end, her arms folded, as she watched a pair of nurses pass by. She looked up as he approached, concern in her eyes.
“Hey,” she said, straightening as he reached her. “Everything okay?”
He forced a nod. “Nurse said it’s…it’s close. Final stages.” His voice felt raw, stripped down to the nerve, and he cleared his throat, glancing away, unable to meet her eyes. “She’ll start slipping more. Breathing will get worse. They said…just to be there. To talk to her. Hold her hand.”
Helena stepped closer, resting a cool hand against his forearm. “I’m so sorry, Trevor.”
He tensed at the touch, the unexpected warmth, the way her thumb traced a slow line against his sleeve. For a moment, the death knell faded, and he leaned into Helena’s gentle strength in her touch, the light pressure anchoring him.
Mom hadn’t been wrong. He did care deeply for Helena. Maybe she cared for him, too, but the timing was terrible and he simply had to keep focused on his dying mother.
“She’s blessed to have you,” Helena said. “Don’t ever doubt that.”
The words cut deep, unraveling something knotted in his chest, a small crack in the wall he’d built around him.
He didn’t trust himself to speak, just nodded, his head dipping as a shudder rippled through his shoulders.
If she knew the truth, that he’d let Mom run into the house because fear had paralyzed him, that fire terrified him even though he’d tried to overcome it by being an arson investigator—but hadn’t—she would not think these things.
He was an imposter. Not a hero. Not a good son.
Helena’s hand slipped down, catching his, her fingers wrapping around his, an abiding, steadying connection.
“I know what you’re going through. I lost my mom after a stroke when I thought I needed her most—going into my teenage years.
And I just lost my dad. It’s like drowning every second and never being able to come up for air yet never dying.
But it gets…not easier. Lighter? My point is, you’re not alone, Trevor,” she whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”
He squeezed her hand, his heart swelling with a gratitude too large for words even though they were sorely misplaced, and he looked at her, really looked. She was stunningly beautiful.
And far too good for him if had time to think about what Mom had said. Right now his focus had to be on her and the cases, and keeping Helena safe. Even if the thought of not being able to move forward with her stung more than he anticipated.