Kate #3
As per usual, the hospital is dreary and depressing, and every ten feet there seems to be some new, overpowering smell.
It’s doing awful things to my stomach, and I press a palm against my chest as if I have the magic powers needed to stop my nausea.
I swallow it down and do my best not to breathe from my nose, which eventually turns into not breathing at all when we reach the busy emergency department.
“We’re here for Jackson Wells,” Austin tells a triage nurse.
Sitting on the other side of a desk, she eyes the three of us over her pink-framed glasses. “And you are?”
“Oh, uh…his brothers and wife.” He gestures wearily at each of us, as if she’s unable to tell who are the brothers and who is the wife. “He was airlifted here a little while ago.”
“He’s in surgery currently, but if you head upstairs to the ICU, that’s where he’ll be afterward.”
The three of us head in search of an elevator in silence, and when we’re stepping onto the ICU floor a couple minutes later, I blindly feel through the air for Denny’s hand.
His palm meets mine, clammy and hot, and his grip tightens with every step toward the large, harrowing double doors leading into the intensive care unit.
Austin—thank God for Austin—takes the lead once again, pressing a buzzer on the wall and speaking with a cheery sounding woman on the other end, letting her know we’re here for Jackson. And with that, we’re instructed to wait….
“For how long?” Denny whispers the question to Austin, encouraging him to relay the question through the intercom.
“How long?” Austin asks gruffly.
“A couple more hours, maybe? You’re welcome to wait in the lobby area and I’ll come let you know when he can have visitors.”
“A couple hours?” My stomach lurches, and I rely solely on Denny to keep me upright.
Denny tips his head back toward the elevator. “Want to go get some food?”
“No.” I swallow the dry, hard lump in my throat. “No, I need to wait right here. What if…what if something happens, and she comes out here looking for us? I can’t leave him. I need to stay.”
“Okay…yeah.” He rolls his lips together and tugs my soulless body toward a cluster of armchairs next to a window overlooking the city.
Outside, the sky is dreary with an impending storm, and though it’s midday, a few random streetlights have accidentally turned on.
Sinking into the chair, I let my head fall back into the thick headrest, and I shutter my eyes for a moment.
Mere hours ago, the bedroom was dark, my eyes shut just like this, and the love of my life was slipping beneath the sheets to run his tongue across my skin.
How the hell did today end up here?
My legs stretch out in front of me, and I slump deeper into the comfy chair.
I wish I could sleep. Wish I could shut my eyes long enough, wake up, and realize this was all a nightmare.
What I would give to reach my hand across the soft sheets on our bed and feel him there.
Hear the gentle snores and the rasp of his breath.
I’d scooch closer, and even in his sleep he’d instinctively pull me into him, curling his body around mine, and lull me back to sleep.
After a long bout of silence, Denny’s voice is barely audible, like he’s simply thinking aloud and didn’t intend for anyone to hear. “Maybe he broke his arm or something, and that’s what he’s in surgery for.”
With a resounding huff, I shoot to my feet, causing both men to nearly leap from their own seats, and I stride toward the intercom speaker. A few seconds after I press the large red button, that same chipper voice crackles through the speaker.
“Yeah, hi, can we get some answers about Jackson Wells? We’ve been out here for hours.” I’m tired and irritated and terrified, and I sound every bit of it.
It’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Oh, yes. He’s still in surgery. I’ll let you know when he’s settled in here.”
“And what is the surgery for?”
The other end is silent for far too long. Did this bitch seriously walk away mid-conversation?
My thumb jabs angrily at the button three times.
“Hi. What’s the surgery?” I repeat.
“A craniotomy.”
Cranio has to mean head. It’s head surgery. Brain surgery?
“Is that—are you saying he’s having brain surgery?” My voice cracks.
“Not exactly. It’s a procedure to remove the blood around his brain.”
Surely she’s not talking about my Jackson. There has to be a mix-up with some other man named Jackson, because my husband can’t have more than a mild concussion. Nothing a couple days in bed won’t fix.
My voice comes out thick and hoarse. “Sorry, I think you’re confused. I was asking about Jackson Wells…”
“Yes. He’s still in the operating room.”
My heart hits every rib on its sudden drop into my stomach.
“Someone will be able to give you more information once the procedure is done.”
“Okay…” I stumble backward, spinning on my heel and sniffing back the burning sensation. My eyes lock on Denny’s. “Not a broken arm.”
In the awkward beat of silence that follows, I slump into my chair and stare up at the ceiling. Counting the tiles, running my gaze up and down the strips connecting them like they’re roadways for Rhett’s toy cars.
The minutes drag slower and slower as they pass. Jackson’s been in surgery for hours, and there’s nothing reassuring about a surgery that takes this long. I’ve had sixteen years with Jackson, and now I’m counting the minutes.