Kate
The double doors into the ICU swing open automatically, and the three of us immediately straighten in our seats.
“Are you Jackson Wells’s family?” The voice I’ve only heard through the intercom comes in loud and clear, attached to a short woman with black hair pulled into a slicked-back bun.
“Yeah—yes. Yes, we are.” I quickly scramble to my feet, smoothing my shirt down. The boys are quick to follow, standing at attention in front of seats that likely have permanent butt-imprints in them by now.
“Come on in.” She beckons us over and points at a hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall.
Once she confirms we’re adequately sanitized, the nurse leads the way down yet another foreboding, fluorescent-lit hallway filled with medical equipment and staff speaking in hushed voices.
“Jackson’s right this way.”
Bright lights wash everything out in the hall of endless closed-off rooms, and after a few sharp turns, I’m disoriented entirely. Good thing I don’t need to know where I’m going, because I’m not leaving Jackson’s room until he does.
The petite nurse abruptly stops in front of a door. The floor-to-ceiling windows on either side have white curtains pulled across them. “Has anyone talked to you about his condition yet?”
All of us shake our heads, and Austin’s first to open his mouth. “No. We, uh…we haven’t heard anything since they loaded him into the helicopter.”
“I’ll send a physician in to speak with you, but I don’t want seeing him to be a shock.
” Her eyes meet mine. “He does have a drain in his skull and a ventilator in place to help him breathe. Right now he’s in a medically induced coma, so he won’t be responsive, but I still suggest talking to him, holding his hand, and that sort of thing. ”
I hear the words, but I can’t make sense of them.
A drain? Ventilator? Coma?
“You can go in and see him. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”
Breath held, pulse racing, I’m first to step into the cool, dark room. The door closes behind us with a soft click, and somewhere under a mess of tubes and wires and bandaging and stiff white hospital blankets, I see him.
My Jackson.
The inside of my cheek has been gnawed raw, and still the tinge of stinging pain does nothing to stop me from grinding my teeth against my flesh. It’s the only thing preventing the scream rattling against my sternum from escaping.
I frantically search the small space for a wastebasket or some type of receptacle to off-load bile from my empty stomach.
Tears burn at my eyes and every dry heave into the small plastic trash can burns my throat.
Gasping for air, I shut my eyes and flatten my palms against the wall to steady myself before I collapse.
“Are you okay?” Denny asks, curling a hand around my bicep to pull me up and into the chair Austin is dragging over. The last thing I want to do is more fucking sitting, but it’s either that or collapse to the dirty hospital floor.
“No.” What I want to say is, Are you fucking kidding me? How could I possibly be okay right now? What the hell kind of question is that?
“I’ll find you some water,” Austin says quietly before slipping back into the hallway.
Denny pulls up a chair beside me and sinks into it with a heavy sigh. “Fuck.”
“Yeah…” I swipe my fingers across my lips, squinting to see the slow rise and fall of Jackson’s chest. The only movement in a still room.
Denny’s phone buzzes violently in his pocket, echoing in the small, cramped room.
“It’s Blair,” he whispers.
I nod. “Answer it.”
For the next minute or so, I listen to him describe the worst moment of my life.
His voice low, words stammered as he explains every detail of the sight in front of us.
The tubes and pale skin and tufts of wet-looking brown hair sticking up above the bandage they’ve wrapped around his head.
His brother and my husband—barely recognizable and barely alive.
On shaky legs, I stand and drag my chair closer to the bed. The metal scrapes across the floor, and I watch Jackson’s face, waiting for a wince at the grating squeal. It doesn’t come.
My fingers weave between his on top of the bed, and I’m careful not to touch any of the lifesaving appendages attached to his body when I lean in close to whisper, “Hi, handsome. I love you….” My voice wavers, breathing hot and shaky against his cheek.
“Hope you’re having a really nice sleep right now.
You know…if you wanted to take a nap, there were easier ways to go about it. ”
I’ve never craved a smile from him the way I do right now.
My lips brush the short stubble along his jaw. “And if you were trying to get out of buying Odessa a horse…you’re not off the hook.”
When Austin walks back into the room holding a white Styrofoam cup, I press a soft kiss to Jackson’s warm skin and accept the ice water from my brother-in-law with a thin smile.
Denny’s hushed conversation with Blair is still happening in the corner of the room, and Austin steps in close to me to give Jackson’s shoulder a loving squeeze.
“Thank you,” I say into the open cup. “For the water and for being here.”
His eyes meet mine, glistening in the soft room lighting. “You don’t need to thank me for doing the bare minimum. He’s my brother…. You’re my sister. Of course I’m going to be here, doing whatever you need.”
“Well, I’m still going to thank you for it.”
“God, I hope he’s okay,” Austin admits under his breath.
The pads of my fingers stroke the length of Jackson’s forearm. With light brown hair and freckles scattered across his skin, his arm appears deceivingly tan for this time of year. Golden and warm and full of life, just like he should be. Just like he has to be.
“He has to be okay, Aus. He has to.” My index finger takes a wide berth around an IV line, careful not to bump it, then circles a small scar on his bicep.
Austin, Jackson, and Denny suffered so much loss when they were younger, with the deaths of their grandpa and mom, immediately followed by their dad packing up and abandoning the ranch.
Somehow, the three of them pulled together and didn’t merely keep Wells Ranch afloat; they worked their asses off to ensure that it became more successful than their grandpa had ever dreamed it would be, giving up everything for the sake of their family’s legacy.
Austin and Denny can’t stand to lose Jackson any more than I can.
My touch runs up to his chest, and I lightly graze the old branding scar over his pec.
Speaking of suffering for the ranch. It’s apparently been a long-standing tradition for the men to brand themselves with the Wells Ranch cattle brand—at eighteen, Jackson willingly placed a hot iron meant for thick cow hides on his chest. Now the scar’s off-white and barely raised, but the sentiment remains.
I’m so focused on studying the man lying in front of me, I don’t notice the doctor step into the room until she speaks. “You must be the family—I’m Doctor Perron.”
Startled, I defensively splay my hand wide and look over at her.
Denny promptly hangs up the phone and gives her a charismatic smile.
If there’s one thing you can count on the youngest Wells brother for, it’s bringing some light into even the most tense situations, and I’m well aware Austin and I have serious resting bitch faces at the best of times.
“I’m not sure how much you’ve been told already…
.” She waits for our collectively confused faces before continuing, “As you know, Jackson suffered some head trauma. That led to a subdural hematoma…blood under one of the layers of tissue that protect your brain”—she points to her head, in a spot that I imagine is roughly where Jackson was bleeding—“so we temporarily removed a portion of his skull….”
I hurriedly pull my hand from his chest, losing focus on the doctor’s voice as the room spins violently out of control.
A portion of his skull was removed. My fingers cramp around the metal of my chair’s armrests.
His skull. Black spots blur my vision and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator floods my brain.
My husband had his skull cut out and he’s being kept alive by machines.
Tears roll heavy and hot down my cheeks, and I pitch forward so my head’s buried between my knees to fight the urge to vomit again.
Somebody wake me up from this fucking nightmare.
Closed fist held tight to my mouth, and breathing heavily through my nose, I try to think about rainbows, or puppies, or donut farts. Sprinkle poops.
Jackson was so taken aback and genuinely hurt by the three-year-old’s utter disgust at his suggestion of sprinkle poops.
I was a smug asshole, selfishly excited to not be the only uncool parent for once.
And I’d take it back in an instant. I want him to be the cool parent.
I want him to teach our kids how to drive a pickup truck, how to understand horses, and how to treat the people you love.
They need him. They deserve to grow up with their daddy by their side.
And our baby…
My stomach clenches and twists. I can’t have this baby without him.
“He has kids,” I blurt out, looking up at the doctor though my vision’s so blurred she’s lacking all definition. “Is…is he going to be okay?”
Denny’s solid hand rests on my shoulder, massaging slowly.
“As I was saying, we were able to clear the hematoma quickly, and that’s typically a good sign, in terms of prognosis.”
“I need you to tell me he’s going to be okay.” It sounds vaguely threatening. I shake my head aggressively, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth to remove the excess saliva pooling in the corners and making my words thick. “Please.”
“Well…” She glances away from me and over to Austin, the pinnacle of calm and rational. “It’s too early to say, but we’ll have a better idea once we’re able to lighten up the coma and see what his level of function is.”
The furthest thing from any sort of reassurance.