Chapter 7 #4
“He’s asleep,” she assures me, realizing shock has taken over me.
“He’s okay. Please sit, Ms Ella. I’ll catch you up.
” She pushes a chair toward the right side of the bed, and I sit, but I am not here.
I am floating above myself, watching from the ceiling, only there is no ceiling and no sound but the constant beeping and the strange heart line forming drawings on a navy screen.
“I’m specialized in home care, and I’m also a retired army nurse,” Gretchen says gently.
“I’ve seen a lot. Your father had been receiving injections that were severely affecting his blood cells.
From the blood work we got after his transfer, his body was struggling under the assault.
” My pen remains still above the notebook.
Injections. Blood cells. Assault. The words line up in my head too polite for what they mean. Poison. Mara had been poisoning him.
Or paying someone to do it, perhaps. The edges of the room blur.
“The good news,” Gretchen continues, her tone carefully joyful, “is that he’s stable now.
You got a fighter there,” she adds. “He is safe here, and his doctor is following his case closely. Mr. Ashford acted quickly. He had him transferred here under private medical supervision, we’ve adjusted his medication and started treatment to support his recovery.
” My hand moves before my brain catches up.
I write, Will he wake up? Gretchen reads it, her expression softening.
“Yes,” she says. “He has been awake, not all the time, and not always fully aware of his surroundings, but yes. He wakes up. Between naps.” She pauses, looking at my dad with a soft smile.
A thin silver Christian cross rests between her collarbones, and I notice colorful threaded bracelets on her wrist. She must be a mom.
There is something about her that would make me trust her with my life, and with a newborn’s too.
My fingers tremble around the pen. Did he ask about me?
The door opens slightly. Tristan appears behind me, and the air shifts from suffocating to breathable. One knee on the ground, he is next to me, so tall that even kneeling, his eyes almost meet mine.
“Ella, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I heard and thought you might need me, but I can wait by the door if…” Tears fill my eyes, and I nod, a silent thank you shaping my lips. Tristan looks at Gretchen, then at the notebook. I sign, can you ask if he asked for me? I don’t have it in me to write it.
“Ella would like to know if her father asked for her.” With a sad sigh, Gretchen answers, “He wasn’t always aware of his surroundings, but each time he was awake enough, yes. He did.” The pen almost falls from my hand.
Was he afraid? Tristan reads it and translates.
“No, confused but not afraid,” Gretchen assures.
“I reassured him you were safe and coming back as soon as possible. He thought you were studying or at the library sometimes. Other times, he knew something had happened, but he was calm. Tired, mostly.” Sitting near Dad, I raise my hand and, in a miracle I did not expect from myself, manage to rest it on his.
Sensing his blood underneath, still going, still alive.
For the next hour, I sit there, torturing myself around all the unsaid things I wish I could have told my father, while the melody of his heartbeat draws lines on the monitor.
Tristan leaves at some point, giving me privacy without needing to be asked.
Gretchen adjusts something near the machine, then steps out too.
It is just us now. Like before.
“You’re gonna get better,” I say silently, nodding to him despite his heavy eyelids.
When I step out of the room after thanking Gretchen, this lovely angel I will have to find a way to thank properly one day, I blow a kiss to Dad and find Tristan waiting in the hallway.
His thumbs move so fast over his phone that it looks like he might break the screen.
At the sight of me, he stops immediately.
“Can we get my things?” I sign. “From the house?” His jaw tightens.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted- I’ve actually sent people there,” he explains. “To pack your room, all of it. Clothes, books, the little things you like to collect, everything. You never have to step inside that house again unless you want to.” My knees wobble.
“Hey.” The back of his hand brushes my jaw, and it’s nothing and everything at the same time. I don't step back; instead, I lean in. His pupils widen. See, Tristan? Not hopeless. Just beaten to my core. Please let me regain strength. I am still here inside myself.
“More,” I sign, bringing both of my hands together, the tips of my fingers in a pleading motion.
The world closes down on us, muting every other presence, the urgency of it all and the edge of collapse we all appear to be standing on.
Without flinching or second-guessing, he steps closer, his digits falling flat against my cheek, cupping my face with his right hand, which is now my favorite hand, if such a thing could exist, and I lean in, purring if I could, crying if I had tears left in me.
His thumb brushes my flesh, and it seems like all the colors have crashed against charcoal and decided to become their own shade.
“One step after the other, sweetheart. We’re-we’re gonna get there.
I know how hard you’re trying right now.
” His voice, heavy and soothing, coats me in an invisible blanket.
“I can live with the rest of the world turning its back on me, but you…” Thumb.
Brushing. Over the jaw. More. “You, I couldn’t, Ella.
” A painful frown takes place on his handsome features as he stops the motion, as if he said too much and not enough at the same time.
We stay like that for one second longer.
Then life, cruel and impatient, comes back to claim us. A phone rings somewhere. A nurse passes behind us. Tristan’s hand falls away from my face, slow, unwilling, as if leaving a battlefield.
“Matt will drive you here tonight if you want to check on him again,” Tristan says, offering his hand.
Images turn blurry, and sounds turn into water, or perhaps a buzz, or perhaps dogs barking.
I no longer know if I am doing the right thing, or if everything I do feels like opening a purse upside down.
Off balance. I wish I could cry and sob and ask Tristan to guide me, tell me how to dress and what to think and what to choose between crying and grit, when to fight and when to quit, I’m tired of it all down to my bones and the impossible width of choices.
But there are no words left in me. And so my hand finds his.
He laces our fingers, pressing them twice in his thick, large palm.
And I try to fight every image stapled to my brain, telling me that I’m only worthy enough to lie down against gray concrete.
Hold my hand, I beg silently.
And please, never let it go.