Chapter 30
chapter thirty
The Cardiac ICU was a place where time folded in on itself, where entire lifetimes lived between the heart monitor's beeps.
Oakland was no stranger to this. Working in her clinic, she spent countless hours in rooms like this—sterile, suffocating, filled with the quiet hum of waiting.
She monitored vitals, watched the slow rise and fall of chests under anesthesia, and tracked the rhythmic beeping of machines keeping fragile bodies alive.
But this was different.
This was her father.
When she first saw him after surgery, the air caught in her throat.
Of course, she knew what to expect—years of medical knowledge, experience, and instinct prepared her for this. She even warned her mother and sister, gently suggesting they wait outside until he was extubated, sparing them the sight of him like this. But they ignored her, unwilling to stay away.
And now, standing at his bedside, she realized nothing could have truly prepared her either.
He looked dead.
His chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm, but it wasn’t his breath.
It was the machine—the ventilator. A long plastic tube was forced down his throat, taped at the corners of his mouth to keep it in place.
IV lines ran from both arms, thick tubes disappearing beneath the gown, leading to fluid bags and drains collecting things she didn’t want to think about.
The machines around him pulsed with mechanical life.
Wires and lines crawled across his body like they were now part of him.
There were red marks on the skin around his eyes—angry and raw—where they’d taped them shut during surgery.
Her father was always so solid. A force. A presence that filled every room he entered. Now, he was small. Swallowed by the hospital bed, pale against the sheets. His hands, which once gripped the edges of a pulpit like they could bend the world to his will, lay slack at his sides.
She, her sister, and their mother sat around him, waiting. The three of them barely spoke, their words swallowed by the slow hiss of the ventilator and the occasional murmur of nurses passing by.
Oakland lowered herself into the chair beside the bed, her fingers trembling against the armrest.
“Dad,” she whispered, testing to see if he could hear her.
Elena sat stiff-backed on the other side of the bed, hands clasped in her lap. Kiley sat at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on their father’s face as if trying to memorize every detail.
None of them moved much. None of them knew how to move in a moment like this.
So they just sat.
Waiting.
She reached for his hand but stopped, afraid she’d feel nothing but dead weight. Instead, she curled her fingers into her lap, forcing herself to breathe through the thick, sterile air.
An hour passed in fragments. Nurses adjusted medications, checked blood pressure, and monitored his oxygen levels. Every time a machine beeped unexpectedly, her pulse spiked, and her fingers twitched toward the call button.
And then, finally, he stirred.
It was initially small—a faint twitch in his fingers, a subtle flutter of his eyelids. Oakland was convinced she imagined it. But then, another movement—his fingers curling slightly, his head tilting just the most minuscule fraction to the side.
“There he is. Dad?” she whispered, leaning in. Her voice trembled as she finally reached for his hand—cold, still, threaded with IV lines. Her fingers wrapped around his gently, like holding too tight might break something.
His eyes opened with a slow, unfocused effort. His chest hitched just enough to set off a slight change in the rhythm of the monitors. His brows knit together like his body was registering something before his mind could catch up.
His eyes were glassy, unfocused, barely there. His gaze flickered, searching but not seeing, drifting across the ceiling, the wires, the tubes—until finally, they landed on her.
His fingers twitched in her grip, sluggish and weak. Then again, stronger this time. A squeeze, tentative at first, then more insistent. His brow furrowed deeper. A faint groan rumbled in his chest, rasping against the thick plastic of the ventilator tube.
The change happened all at once.
His eyes sharpened, awareness crashing down too fast. His whole body tensed, his chest stuttering against the forced rhythm of the machine. His breath hitched—then caught, his throat convulsing around the foreign presence of the tube.
And then panic.
His grip tightened, crushing hers as he fought against something he didn’t understand. His breathing turned ragged, nostrils flaring, his body jerking against the bed restraints meant to keep him from pulling his tube out.
Oakland tightened her hold on his hand. “Dad—Dad, stop, it’s okay,” she said quickly, her voice breaking as she pressed her other hand against his arm. “You just had surgery, remember? You’re okay.”
His pupils were blown wide, wild, locked onto her like she was the only thing tethering him to reality. He squeezed her hand repeatedly, desperate like he could communicate something through pressure alone.
The monitors screamed—sharp, urgent tones splitting the quiet. A blur of movement—nurses, a doctor, voices snapping instructions.
“He’s fighting the vent?—”
“He’s trying to breathe over it?—”
Oakland pressed her free hand over his knuckles. “Dad, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You’re in the hospital, you had surgery?—”
He squeezed her hand again. Harder.
Across the room, Kiley and Elena sat frozen, their faces pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. Neither of them moved, barely breathing. Their hands gripped the arms of their chairs like letting go would send them tumbling into the chaos unraveling in front of them.
Elena’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Kiley’s nails dug into her sweater sleeves, her wide eyes flickering between Oakland and their father as if waiting for someone to say this wasn’t as bad as it looked.
But no one did.
It didn’t escape her that in this moment of panic, her father’s gaze didn’t seek out her mother, her sister, or even the nurses and doctors surrounding him.
His eyes were locked on her—only her. Their fear was raw, unguarded, a silent plea that struck her harder than any word could.
His body tensed against the wires and machines, against the helplessness pressing in from all sides, but it was her presence he clung to as if she were the only one who could help him, the only one who could pull him back.
The doctor flipped through the monitors, assessing and adjusting. “We’re just about ready to extubate,” someone said.
Oakland’s stomach dropped.
She knew this process would be brutal.
First, they tested adjusted settings, lowering the ventilator’s assistance. Then, they watched his stats to determine whether his lungs were ready to take over.
A few minutes later, the doctor leaned over him. “Mr. Pratt, we are ready to take the tube out now.”
They loosened the tape first. Then, the nurse took a position at his side, guiding his head forward.
“Try to give us a cough…”
And pulled.
The tube slid from his throat in one long, slick motion, and he gagged—his body convulsing, chest jerking as his throat fought to reclaim itself.
He coughed.
Wet. Harsh. Painful.
But it was his—not the machine’s.
Then came the breath.
A sharp, ragged inhale, like it was the first one he’d ever taken. His chest hitched, lips parting, his whole body shuddering as air finally filled his lungs on his terms.
It was like he was being born all over again.
His second life.
Oakland felt something crack inside her.
She squeezed his hand tighter. “Dad?”
She noticed tears in his eyes, likely from the physical trauma his body just went through, but she couldn’t help but well up at the sight.
Her breath caught. “You’re okay,” she whispered, voice breaking.
His fingers twitched once before going slack. Not unconscious—just exhausted.
She didn’t let go.
* * *
The next few days blurred.
He was moved out of the ICU and into the recovery center, a quieter wing where the machines weren’t quite so loud, where alarms didn’t go off every few minutes. The constant beeping of the monitors faded, but the weight of waiting remained.
Oakland stayed.
She helped him sit up for the first time, adjusting pillows and guiding his movements carefully when his arms trembled under his weight.
She walked with him down the long corridors, slow and painstaking, his hands gripping the railings as he forced his legs to remember how to move.
The first time, he made it three steps before his knees buckled. She caught him before he could fall.
The second time, he made it ten.
By the end of the week, he could cross the room without her holding on.
Mornings started with the quiet hum of the hospital’s automated systems adjusting the bed, gently elevating him to ease the stiffness in his joints.
The exosupport cuffs around his legs helped guide his muscles as she assisted him into the sleek, self-adjusting chair by the window—a chair that adapted to his movements, monitoring his vitals with quiet precision.
He’d sit there for hours, watching the steady flow of doctors and patients, the med-drones gliding silently through the halls delivering supplies.
Afternoons were spent coaxing him to eat, and the hospital’s nutrition tech tracked his intake down to the micronutrient level. The food was still bland—no algorithm could fix that—but at least he was eating.
Evenings were for conversation—not about the church, the last few months, or the rift still lingering between them. Just… lighter things.
Kiley was the one who started it.
“You remember the raccoon?” she asked one night, kicking her feet up on the edge of the bed.
Their father groaned immediately. “Oh, God.”
Oakland raised an eyebrow. “Dad, what raccoon?”
“The one he let inside,” Kiley said, grinning.
“I did not let it in,” their father said.
“You whistled at it,” Kiley shot back.