CHAPTER FOUR
No Second Take
The hospital hasn’t changed. Same beige walls. Same antiseptic tang. Same dread clinging to the air. Time seems to stand still here between the ticking of a clock and the hum of the harsh fluorescent lights.
As we leave the receptionist’s desk, the air conditioning hits me and I shiver. Brooks notices, his hand hovering just above the small of my back, ready to catch me if I stumble.
"You ready?" he asks, low and concerned.
"Yeah," I reply, although I’m not entirely sure if that’s true. My mind is in a fog and I’m struggling to keep up with everything that’s happening. "Let’s just get this over with."
He nods, understanding in his eyes, and we make our way over to the elevator.
The ride up to the ICU is charged, the few floors we pass marked by a dull ding that echoes in the enclosed space.
When the doors finally slide open, I’m hit with a wave of memories.
Of the last time I was here. It was so long ago.
I was just a child. When everything was different. When Dad was still… Dad.
The ICU is quiet, too quiet, and the tension in the air is almost suffocating. We walk past closed doors, my heart is pounding as each step brings me closer to a truth I’m not ready to face.
Brooks stops in front of room 312 and faces me. "Do you want me to go in with you?"
I hesitate, looking at the door that’s about to shatter reality. Part of me wants to say yes, to have him by my side as I face whatever is on the other side of that door. But another part of me knows this is something I have to do on my own.
"I’ll be okay," I say. "Just… wait out here?"
He nods, and there’s something in his expression. Something I can’t quite decipher, but it makes me feel less afraid. Less alone. "I’ll be right here if you need me."
I take a deep breath and push the door open. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the window on the far wall. The sound of machines fills the space, a steady, rhythmic beeping that matches the roaring of my heart.
And there in bed is Dad.
He looks like someone else. Smaller. Fragile. As if life has already started slipping through the spaces between his fingers. The strong, stoic man who raised me is barely recognizable beneath the tubes and wires.
I take a step closer, my legs trembling, and I can’t help the tears that well in my eyes.
"Dad," I whisper, my voice cracking. But there’s no response. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the machines doing the work his body is no longer able to.
I sink into the chair beside the bed, the gravity of the situation pressing down on me. It’s like a dam has broken inside me, and all the emotions I’ve been holding back are racing to the surface.
I reach out and take his hand, his skin cool beneath my fingers. He doesn’t squeeze back, doesn’t even twitch, and it’s like a knife to my heart.
"I’m sorry," I choke out, the words spilling from me in a rush. "I’m so sorry, Dad. I should have been here. I should have…"
My words trail off because what’s the point? Apologies won’t bring back the time I lost. The time we lost.
"I don’t know if you can hear me," I mutter barely more than a whisper. "But I’m here now, okay? I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere."
I sit there for what feels like a lifetime, just holding his hand and letting the silence fill the space between us.
My mind races with memories, flashes of moments from my childhood: Dad teaching me to ride a bike, his hand steady on my back as I wobbled down the street; the way he’d clap the loudest at my school plays, even when I only had one line; and the times he’d sit with me on the porch, the silence both comforting and reassuring.
Tears blur my vision, and I have to blink them away to keep from losing it.
I lean forward, resting my forehead against his hand, and let the tears fall.
I cry for the time we lost, for the man lying in this bed, for the family I left behind when I ran off to chase my dreams. Shallow, filtered dreams.
Grief feels like failure. Like every second I wasn’t here added another wire to this bed. But maybe showing up counts for something.
I lift my head, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, and take a deep breath.
"I’m going to make this right, Dad," I decide, feeling stronger now, more determined. "I don’t know how, but I’m going to fix this. I’m going to be here for you, Mom and Jasper. I promise."
I stand on shaking knees, and press a kiss to his forehead. "I love you."
Then, I turn and walk out of the room, my heart heavy but my resolve firm. As I step back into the hallway, Brooks is there just like he said he’d be. He takes one look at me and knows—somehow—that something has changed.
Without a word, he steps forward and wraps his arms around me. I sink into his warm chest, letting him hold me up, letting him be the strength I don’t have right now.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just holds me. Just breathes. My hands clutch the fabric of his shirt.
We stand like that for a long time, until the weight of everything I’ve just experienced starts to shift a little.
When I finally pull back, I’m surprised to see the worry etched into the corners of his face. His stormy gray eyes are darker than usual, clouded with something I can’t quite place. For a moment, I wonder if maybe he’s carrying more than I realize.
"Thank you." It comes out hoarse from crying.
He shrugs, his hand still resting on my back like a dull, comforting weight. "Do you want to go back to the house?"
I shake my head. "No, I need to stay here. I need to talk to the doctors and figure out what the next steps are."
Brooks looks like he wants to argue, but he must see something in my face that makes him stop. "Alright, but you’re not alone."
"I’ll be fine," I insist. "You should go home and check on Mom and Jasper."
He hesitates, his eyes searching mine, and I can tell he’s torn between what he thinks is best and what I’m asking of him.
Finally, he nods in resignation. "Okay but call me if you need anything." There’s a pause before he adds, “I mean it, Elowen."
"I will," I promise.
He gives me one final look before he’s walking away and leaving me standing alone in the hallway.
It feels emptier without Brooks, the silence forcing its way down on all sides.
I take a deep breath and try steadying myself before making my way to the nurses’ station at the end of the corridor.
A young nurse is sitting behind the desk, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.
"Hi," I say. "I’m Elowen Donovan. My father is in room 312. I was hoping to speak with his doctor?"
The nurse looks up from her computer, her eyes flicking to the chart in front of her. "Of course, Ms. Donovan. Let me page Dr. Kulkarni for you. She’s the attending physician on your father’s case."
I nod, grateful that things are moving smoothly. For now.
As the nurse makes the call, I glance around the ICU, trying to ground myself in the present.
It’s strange being here again, surrounded by the same walls and the same sterile smells, but with a different kind of fear hanging over me.
Last time I was here, it was a broken arm from a bike accident and a scraped knee from the fall that only needed a band aid.
Now, it’s life or death. The stakes are so much higher.
"Dr. Kulkarni will be here in just a few minutes," the nurse says, pulling me back to the present. "Would you like to wait in the family lounge? It’s just down the hall to your right."
I consider, but the idea of sitting in a room filled with anxious family members staring at a clock on the wall doesn’t appeal to me. "No, I’ll just wait here, if that’s okay."
The nurse smiles, and I lean against the counter, ignoring the knot in the pit of my stomach.
I focus on the steady beep of machines, the quiet footsteps of nurses moving from room to room, anything to keep my mind from wandering too far down the hall to room 312.
A few minutes later, a woman in her late thirties, with dark hair pulled into a low bun and a white coat draped over her navy scrubs, approaches me.
She has the calm demeanor of someone who’s spent years delivering difficult news, but there’s a softness in her eyes that helps put me a little more at ease.
"Ms. Donovan?" she asks, extending a hand. "I’m Dr. Kulkarni. I’ve been overseeing your father’s care."
"Please, call me Elowen," I say, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm but gentle, and I find myself clinging to that small comfort. "How is he? What’s the prognosis?"
Dr. Kulkarni gestures for me to follow her to a quieter corner of the hallway. "Your father’s condition is critical," she begins, her face composed. "His heart is very weak. The stroke caused significant damage, and there’s a risk of further complications."
Her words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, but I will myself to stay focused. "Is there anything that can be done? Surgery? Medication?"
"We’re doing everything we can to keep him comfortable and to manage his symptoms," Dr. Kulkarni says. "But given his age and the extent of the damage, surgery isn’t a viable option. Our primary goal right now is to ensure he’s stable and to prevent any further deterioration."
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, trying to process everything she’s saying. It feels like the ground is shifting beneath my feet, but I know I have to keep it together. "What about… long term? Is there any chance of recovery?"
Dr. Kulkarni hesitates before she even speaks. "It’s difficult to say. Recovery from a stroke is always uncertain, and in your father’s case, the prognosis isn’t good. He may regain some function, but it’s unlikely he’ll ever be the same."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. I swallow hard, trying to remain strong. "What can I do?"
"Just be here," Dr. Kulkarni instructs gently. "He may not be able to respond, but he can hear you. Talk to him, hold his hand, and let him know that he’s not alone."
The tears threaten to spill. "Thank you, Dr. Kulkarni."
She gives me a small smile and reaches out to squeeze my arm. "If you have any questions, or if you just need to talk, I’m here. We’ll do everything we can for your father."
As she walks away, the weight of her words settle over me like a heavy blanket. The future I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about is now staring me straight in the face, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’m not ready to lose Dad. I’m not ready to say goodbye.
Taking a deep breath, I make my way back to his room. The sight of him lying there still and unmoving, so unlike the man I grew up with, sends a fresh wave of grief crashing into me. I sink into the chair beside his bed again and take his hand in mine.
"Dad," I cry quietly. "I’m so sorry. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I need you to know I love you. I know I haven’t been here and I know I’ve let you down, but I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere."
The words pour out of me, a confession I didn’t realize I needed to make.
I talk to him about everything—about Mom, about Jasper, and about how scared I am.
I tell him about the life I’ve built in Los Angeles, about the highs and lows, the successes and loneliness that come with it.
I talk until there’s nothing left to say.
And when I run out of words, I just sit there, his hand in mine, the beeping steady, the silence saying everything I can’t.
There’s no edit button here. No second take.