Kate
After the first night, everyone tried to convince me to leave, to get some rest. Assured me it was good for me. But what’s good for me is being with my husband, holding his hand, and doing everything in my power to keep him from slipping away for good.
When my stoicism gave way to a tear-filled breakdown, Austin stepped in and demanded everyone leave me be. Since then, no one has dared to comment on my presence.
For the next four days, so many hospital shift changes happened, time lost meaning.
I watched doctors and nurses flow in and out of the room throughout the day, pleaded with them for answers, drilled them for information.
I watched their movements and read their subtle cues, clinging to anything that seemed hopeful.
Beyond that, I studied every detail of my husband’s skin, checked in on the kids—quashing Odessa’s worries and listening to Rhett recap all the episodes of Spider-Man that Beryl’s letting him watch—and reluctantly let Denny teach me how to play poker.
At one point, I became bored enough I got the idea to call my parents, which was an entirely unproductive conversation.
I love them—don’t get me wrong—but they’ve always been the kind of parents who give you that distant pat on the back when you’re sad, instead of pulling your tiny, shaken body into their lap for an all-consuming hug.
Not the type to drop everything and drive a few hours to see us.
They sent their sympathy, reluctantly told me to call them if I needed anything, as if that wasn’t the purpose for my initial phone call.
One of the friendly older nurses slips into the dimly lit room to begin her morning routine.
Quickly followed by Dr. Perron, who’s told us to call her Tanya.
Being on a first-name basis with the ICU doctor doesn’t feel like a great sign, if I’m being honest. It gives take your coat off and stay awhile energy, as if she wants us to get comfortable in a room that’s the farthest damn thing from comfortable.
Austin and Denny no longer immediately straighten up when someone enters the room, but instead wearily lift their heads to acknowledge her.
I insisted they could go back to the ranch yesterday, or at the very least spend a night in a decent hotel bed, the way Bennett has been.
But the brothers insisted they weren’t leaving.
Just in case.
We keep saying those words.
But after four days of watching Jackson lie unresponsive in a hospital bed, covered in wires and tubes, just in case has pretty much lost all meaning. At this point, I’m afraid they’re here because they’re worried about me.
I’m cognizant of the fact that I’m a shell of myself right now. I eat and drink water and walk around Jackson’s room only when guilt over the fetus inside my womb weighs too heavy on my heart. I need him or her to be okay, just in case Jackson’s okay.
But if he’s not…how can I raise another baby that looks and acts like him?
I can’t.
The nurse scratches her pen across a thick stack of paper attached to a clipboard, dragging me from my intrusive thoughts.
“Good news,” Dr. Tanya Perron says nonchalantly, making the boys and me spring to life.
I stare unblinking, on the verge of tears. It’s astounding that my body still has the ability to produce tears, given how little sleep, food, or water I’m running on, and how frequently I’ve cried over the past few days.
“I think we’re ready to wean him off the sedation. See if he’s ready to wake up.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I lean forward to grip Jackson’s limp hand. “He’s going to wake up?”
Her hand gently raises to stop me. “It’s not like waking someone up from a normal sleep—it’ll take some time. Could be hours or even days, and it’s quite likely he’ll be agitated and confused. We don’t know anything about his cognitive function yet.”
Austin’s gruff voice fills the room. “When are you going to do that?”
“The anesthesiologist should be here any time now.”
The waiting for days and for hours and for minutes, never leaving this chair for a single second more than necessary, was all for this exact just in case.
Just in case the doctor came in to wake him up.
I don’t care much about what happens after that, so long as I get to see his rich, brown eyes, hear his sleepy voice, and feel the hand I’m currently holding tighten around mine.
—
A few hours later, the gentle clench of his fingers, like the reflexive squeezing movement of a baby, nearly throws me from my chair. The hair on my arm stands on end, leading the way for goosebumps to scatter across my skin.
“Oh my God.” I squeeze his hand back, swallowing hard as I search his face for more signs of consciousness. His face remains perfectly relaxed, but surely I didn’t imagine the squeeze. “H-he just—he squeezed my hand. Does that mean he’s awake?”
The nurse’s mouth curves into a slight smile, and she joins me in watching Jackson for any new motion.
“It can take a while for people to become fully alert after such a heavy sedation—especially with a head injury. But he’s not receiving any type of sedative anymore, so it’s likely he’s slowly waking up. ”
“Jackson…”
Chair legs drag across the ground with a grating sound—Austin and Denny sliding in close to the foot of the bed. Opposite me, Bennett’s hand repeatedly wrings the plastic bed rail.
“Jackson,” I repeat softly. “I’m here. Your dad, Austin, and Denny are, too.”
No movement.
I shake my head and glance at the nurse. “I wasn’t imagining things. He squeezed my hand before.”
“He might be drifting in and out of con—”
An unmistakable squeeze.
I breathe out my husband’s name with a relieved, tear-filled sigh and heat travels the length of my spine to settle warmly in my chest when I lean in to kiss the back of his work-worn hand.
Somewhere amid the tears, the gentle brush of my lips on his skin, and the full-body ache from days spent in this chair, I feel laughter trying to break through.
I massage his hand. His thumb rubs a slow circle. My insides sing with giddy excitement over the simplest pleasure of having this man hold my hand.
“I love you,” I say with a slight waver in my voice.
For the first time since this process started, I take a full breath. Tears form in my eyes.
Denny angles himself, shuffling the metal feet of his chair a few inches to the left, so he can give his brother’s shin a reassuring pat through the hospital blankets. “We all love you, bro.”
When Jackson’s movement stops, so does my heart.
I’ve spent more than enough time staring at his unresponsive body, backlit by the glow of medical equipment responsible for his life.
Knowing his body is simply recuperating and tired, slipping in and out of sleep while the effects of his medically induced coma wear off, does nothing to ease the pang of fear deep in my gut when I squeeze his fingers together and receive nothing in return.
Hours pass, the long bouts of deep sleep lessen, and there’s a new fluttering of his still-closed eyes. A twitch of his foot. And a rumbling noise from somewhere in his throat when he takes his first full breath with the ventilator switched off.
Jackson may have been the one in a coma, but when his long, dark eyelashes flicker to reveal a sliver of espresso iris, I come back to life.
“Good morning, handsome.” I lose my words in a sob. “I’m…you don’t know how happy I am to see you.”
His eyes become slits again. Clearly he’s drowsy and struggling to keep them open; they fall shut in a series of long blinks.
Each time Jackson wakes up, his new nurse, Aaron, abandons casual conversation with Denny and Austin so he can focus on the various monitors tracking every aspect of Jackson’s health.
And I can’t stop staring at my husband. His hooded gaze drifts around the room, never settling in one place for long, and I grip his hand to keep him from floating away. Everything in me wants nothing more than to lock eyes with him.
Funny. Locking eyes with the cute, quiet, middle Wells brother was also my primary goal when I first moved to the ranch so many years ago.
A brand-new graduate from the care aide program, I was thrilled when Bennett Wells, the boys’ father, offered me a job caring for his terminally ill wife.
I grew up in the suburbs, with a love for horses and a grandfather who was willing to spend his retirement driving me to and from the stable multiple times per week.
A live-in placement on a ranch? That was the dream.
Then Jackson sauntered into the big house with wavy, pushed-back hair and a natural uptick in his lips.
He was adorably shy—it was weeks before he uttered a single word in my presence—and he averted his eyes the minute they met mine.
Slowly we developed a friendship over sipping tea in the middle of the night.
And before I’d realized what was happening, my dream became Jackson Wells.
When his eyes fully open, they’re awash with confusion and fear. Only a small ring of brown separates his massive pupils from the bloodshot whites of his eyes. In a frantic, uncoordinated movement, Jackson shakes me off and his hands fly upward.
“Jackson,” I yelp, frantically catching hold of his forearm.
Even in his weakened, groggy state, he’s too strong for me. With concerted effort, he attempts to pull the ventilator tubes away from his face. Thankfully, Aaron seems ready for exactly this, given how quickly he steps in to grab hold of his arms, pinning them to the bed with a huff.
Having the largest nurse on staff in the room for this moment seems intentional.
He looks more like a professional rugby player than an ICU nurse.
I can’t imagine the petite twenty-something we had in here earlier would’ve been able to stop him with such ease.
Jackson’s slightly over six feet tall and two hundred pounds, and though he’s not strolling into a bodybuilding competition, he’s solidly built.
Toughened from a life of grueling ranch work.