Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
I make a beeline down the maze of hallways until I locate the H wing.
The elevator’s slow and crowded, so I fit into a corner, doing my best to keep my left arm protected.
As I step off the elevator and make a right, I spot my brother wheeling himself into the hallway.
He’s got a hospital gown, a mask, and gloves on, but as I approach, he removes them and reaches for the hand sanitizer.
“Will!” I call out.
He wipes his hands and rolls towards me, and I jog over, meeting him halfway. I lean down and give my older brother a tight hug with my good arm, both of us trembling.
“How’s Mom?” I ask.
Will leans back and presses his lips together. His green eyes are bloodshot, his thick hair sticking up on end.
“She’s in protective isolation.”
“What does that mean?”
“A private room, all visitors have to gown, mask, and glove up before they enter, plus there’s a special air filtration system.”
“Jesus.”
He nods.
“Dad got her here as quick as he could, so the doctors say that’s in her favor. We’ll see if the first round of antibiotics works, but she’ll probably be here for at least a week, if not more. Her fever spiked again and she’s confused.”
“Fuck, she was doing so much better these last two months.”
He sighs and rubs his head.
“I know. All we can do now is wait.”
“Are you heading back to your place?”
“No, I’m going to grab a bite at the cafeteria, and then I’ll head back up here. You want me to bring you something?”
I shake my head.
“I don’t think I can eat.”
“When was your last meal?”
“Um—”
“Okay, I’m grabbing four sandwiches, and you will eat them. All of them,” he insists.
Typical Will, always my big brother. The familiar teasing has me breathing easier.
“Thanks.”
“I thought your shoulder was better?” he asks, concern on his face.
“It is. I don’t need the sling, but I wore it on the plane so people wouldn’t bump into me.”
“Good idea.” Will nods. “I’m so glad it wasn’t any worse. We were all scared for you.”
“I’m fine. Well, not fine given where Mom is, but you know what I mean.”
“I’ll be back in a bit.”
As he wheels off, I continue down the hallway.
There’s a bathroom at this end, so I quickly pop in, remove my sling, and scrub up as best I can.
When I step back out, I head for my mom’s room and stop outside the door to suit up in a gown, mask, and gloves.
Placing my hand on the door, I take a deep breath before I step inside.
The room hums with the beep of machines and what I assume is the sound of the ventilation system.
Mom’s asleep, her skin translucent and sweaty, an IV in her arm, and I take note of the machine that’s tracking her vitals.
Fear claws at me, but I refuse to let it yank me under.
My dad sits in a nearby chair, his head in his hands.
“Dad,” I whisper.
He raises his head, anxiety etched on every line of his face.
“Finn.”
He gets up and stalks toward me, his hug so tight I’m in danger of adding bruised ribs to my physiotherapy list.
“Will told me she’s not coherent right now.”
“Yeah,” his voice trembles. “The fever.”
“Can I still talk to her, or will that make things worse?”
“Even if she doesn’t understand everything you’re saying, she needs to know you’re here.”
“Has her oncologist stopped by?”
Dad nods and leads me over to the couch in the corner. Once we sit, he offers me a bottle of Gatorade. I take it, but my stomach’s knotted up and I doubt I can even get liquid down.
“I’m kicking myself.” His normally booming voice wavers. “As soon as she mentioned the issue with her bladder, I should’ve brought her straight here, instead of going to that other damn hospital. I waited too fucking long. This is my fault.”
“You did what you thought was best at the time. You got her seen as fast as possible.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“She ended up here, that’s what—”
“I should’ve paid more attention!”
His outburst startles me, and I glance over, but Mom is still asleep.
“Dad, you’ve been her rock. Always. Blaming yourself isn’t going to help her or you or any of us. She needs us to be strong. And if she heard you talk like that, she’d give you hell.”
My dad grabs a tissue and wipes his eyes.
“Don’t I know it.”
The adoring way he stares at her, even after almost three decades together, has me fighting back tears again. It reminds me of…
I quickly pull my phone out and text Sel.
Finn: I’ve arrived, but she’s asleep, her fever’s running high. Too much to type out in one message but I’ll call you around 10. Is that okay or too late?
Sel: I’ll be waiting
Finn: I thought about your suggestion. Do you still want to stop here on your way to California?
Sel: Absolutely
Finn: Then I’ll see you soon. Miss you
Sel: Miss you more
I pocket my phone and notice the blanket and pillow on the couch.
“Are you sleeping here?”
Dad nods.
“I’m not leaving until she’s released,” he insists. “Are you going to stay at Will’s?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. If Will’s okay with it, sure. Or given that you’re staying here, I can grab the truck and drive back to the farm to see how everyone else is doing.”
“They’d like that. They’ve been managing things since I can’t.”
“I could help them—”
“No, Finn. I don’t want you doing anything to put your recovery back. Spend the night at home if that’s what you prefer, but no farm work. And don’t argue with me on this.”
“Alright.” I nod. “What do you want me to do?”
“If you can stay here during the day, as much as possible, as much as you’re allowed… That’s all I want. I don’t want her alone.”
I reach out and take my dad’s shaky hand.
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
Three days later
The doctors said the first few days would be critical and they were right; Mom’s fever is a roller coaster, spiking and ebbing every couple of hours.
When I first arrived and she woke up, she thought I was the one who was in hospital; she asked about my shoulder and if I was going to play hockey again.
Today, her fever calmed and stayed that way, and she’s no longer confused, thank fuck.
Will and I spend the most time at the hospital, with my siblings—Amelia, Brent, Sophie, and Tyler—on a rotation, dropping by for an hour each day.
I’m glad I’ve been here so Dad can take a break, even if he only leaves her room for ten minutes at a time.
He’s on that small couch in Mom’s room every night, but he’s hardly sleeping.
Sleep doesn’t come easy for the rest of us either.