Chapter Thirty-Six Callum #2
A tear slips out of the corner of her eye, and my thumb's already there, brushing it away. My own eyes sting in response, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. Her pain is my pain.
"I love you so much," she breathes, the words slurring together as her eyelids droop. "That's why I don't want to go... please—don't let me go, Callum..."
The words pierce me sharply, and my throat tightens, but I force the words out.
"You're not going anywhere," I promise. "Except to sleep. Okay? Rest, baby. I'm here, I've got you."
She hums faintly, already halfway gone. "Mmkay..."
I brush my lips across her forehead, letting them linger there for a moment, the heat of her skin burning against mine. Pulling back, I see she's already asleep, and I tuck the blankets around her, making sure she's cozy before stepping back.
When I glance toward the doorway, I see my mom watching us quietly—hands clasped to her chest, eyes full of worry.
I need to set up this generator.
I need to call her doctor.
I need to fix this.
◆◆◆
"Hey, Callum, what's up?"
Oliver's voice is casual and warm, the way he always picks up when I call for a catch-up.
He doesn't know that I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin.
It took an hour to get the generator going because the rain hadn't let up, and my mind kept drifting off to Sophie upstairs, worry making my hands feel relatively useless.
I'm soaked to the bone, but the generator is up and running, under its protective cover, and we have power again in the apartment.
I grab my phone and shakily call Oliver as I walk up the apartment steps, my wet boots and socks squelching with every step. I was hoping he wasn't with a patient so I could talk to him.
I know he's not an oncologist, and I should call Sophie's doctor, which I will when I get their number from her phone—but I trust Oliver. And more importantly, I would trust him with Sophie's life.
I need my best friend's voice right now to talk me down because I'm seconds from losing my goddamn mind.
"I think... I think Sophie's sick," I choke out.
There's a pause.
"What are her symptoms?" he asks, his tone changing immediately. My best friend Oliver is gone—this is Dr. Kennedy speaking to me now.
"She was hot—uh, drained. A little congested, coughing." I stutter through the list, my voice weak and cracking. "The chemo makes her really tired, I just thought—"
I step into the apartment, and the smell of rosemary and thyme hits me—comforting and warm. Mom's at the gas stove making soup, and when she hears me, she looks at me with pure concern in her eyes. I mouth 'OIiver' when she tilts her head, silently asking who I'm talking to.
Grabbing a towel from the linen closet, I run it through my dripping hair.
"What's her temperature?"
"Uh, I don't know—" I make a detour to the bathroom to grab our thermometer and walk back into my bedroom, and Sophie doesn't even move at the noise. Placing the thermometer up to her head, I pinch the phone between my head and shoulder and gently try to rouse her. "Hold on, Oliver."
I run my hand over her head and see that her teeth are chattering. She's hugging the blankets to her tighter, a sheen of sweat on her head and neck. My voice is wobbly when I gently shake her, "Sophie?"
She moans but says nothing else. My pulse spikes and I shake her again, a little harder.
"Sophie? Come on, baby, talk to me—how are you feeling?" I coax, and when she doesn't move or respond, the panic scrapes her voice from my throat. "Sophie!"
She whines, "I'm trying... Callum, I'm trying, I— I can't wake up... heavy... too heavy..."
The thermometer beeps, and my stomach plummets when I read it.
"100.9."
"Callum, listen to me," Oliver says, his voice clipped and urgent. "Her immune system is practically gone right now. The chemo kills the cancer cells—but it also wipes out her white blood cells. She doesn't have the defenses to fight off anything. Even a mild cold could be deadly—"
My ears start ringing, and his voice fades into nothing.
I stare at Sophie's face—too pale, her lips trembling, her chest rising and falling too fast. She's murmuring nonsense, half-dreaming, half-delirious, and my brain can't catch up with what's happening.
I got too caught up in the weekend, in wanting to make this weekend special for her—an escape from cancer, from worry, from sickness. I wanted her to have something beautiful, something normal.
And instead, I gave her this.
Deadly. The word echoes, sharp and unrelenting, in my brain. My vision blurs, my eyes sting, and I feel like I'm lifting from my body.
Deadly, deadly, deadly...
"Callum!"
Oliver's voice snaps me back, loud and commanding through the phone.
"Y-Yeah?"
"Callum, you have to get her to the hospital—right now."
All my fault, all my fault, all my fault.
◆◆◆
When we called 911, the operator's voice was stressed and overwhelmed, and they informed us they were dealing with a high volume of callers reporting injuries from the storm, including car accidents, trees falling through homes, and power lines down.
"Might be a while before someone can reach you, sir."
When it rains, it pours.
I couldn't—wouldn't—wait.
"Come on, baby," I murmur, sliding my arms under Sophie's trembling body. The moment my hands touch her fever-hot skin, she flinches, a tiny whimper escaping her cracked lips.
"... hurts," she breathes, and the sound tears a hole open inside of me. All my fault, all my fault.
"I know, I'm sorry," I whisper, wrapping her in one of my hoodies, the fabric swallowing her in a way that should look cute—should make us both smile—but she's shivering too hard to notice.
I tuck a thick quilted blanket around her, pull the hood over her damp scalp, and slide a pair of my socks over her bare feet.
You should've driven her sooner. You should've known. You should've protected her.
We rush her out to my truck, and my mom opens the back seat and hops in.
Carefully, I lay Sophie down, and my mom guides her head to her lap.
I pull away from the curb, my truck navigating this storm better than Sophie's car did, but I'm still driving extremely carefully, avoiding trash cans and fallen branches in the road.
My tires are big enough not to be affected by the flooding on the road.
The steering wheel is almost crushed under my grip as I quietly curse myself the entire way. The only sounds in the truck are Sophie's panting breaths, moans of pain, and my mom's soft humming. My jaw is clenched so tight it aches.
Then she goes silent, and that's when my panic skyrockets.
"Baby?" My voice cracks, fear squeezing my throat. "Hey. Hey, my otter, talk to me. What movies are we gonna watch when you feel better, huh?"
Nothing.
I glance at the rearview mirror—Mom's eyes are full of the same dread flooding my body. The silence from Sophie terrifies me more than anything, and I try to just focus on the road blurring in front of me—driving as fast and as carefully as I can.
Don't crash. Don't stop. Please, God, don't let her go.
When the hospital finally comes into view, my heart is pounding so violently it hurts. I slam into the roundabout, throw the truck into park, and sprint around to pull Sophie into my arms. Mom jumps out, runs around to the front, and shouts that she'll park the truck.
"It's okay, baby," I murmur, pressing frantic kisses on the heated skin of her temple, tasting salt and rain and Sophie. "We're here. I've got you. We're gonna fix this—I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
The doors slide open, and I jog through, trying not to jostle her too much.
I feel like I could rip through twelve men with my bare hands with the rage I'm feeling toward myself. Because I know Sophie is feeling like this because of me, due to my irresponsible actions.
This is all your fault, asshole. She's going to die.
Just like your dad.
"I need a doctor! Please—please help me!" The words shred their way out of my throat, and three people in scrubs at the front desk jerk their heads up at once. The tallest—broad-shouldered, bald, dressed in black scrubs—points with authority at the two in blue scrubs.
"Mary, Jon! Gurney, now!"
They jump into action, grabbing a gurney and rushing over to us, where I lower Sophie down. Everything in me is screaming to not let her out of my arms, but I force myself to let go.
These people are the only ones who can help her now. I've done enough—actually, no, I haven't done enough. I didn't do anything at all when I saw something was wrong.
I second-guessed myself, I assumed, I hesitated, I lived in denial, and now Sophie's paying the price.
I'm on their heels, slipping and stumbling on the wet floor as the storm hammers at the building.
"I'm Dr. Rashid," the tall man says, taking the stethoscope off his neck and placing it to Sophie's chest, but his question is directed at me, his tone controlled but urgent. "What happened?"
"She has breast cancer, she wasn't feeling well this morning, and her fever spiked—it was 100.9—and now she's getting worse—and I should have brought her earlier, I should have insisted, I sh—" I stutter out, frantic, each word spilling over themselves as I try to get them out at once.
"She's here now," Nurse Mary says, kind but efficient, sliding a thermometer across Sophie's forehead, adjusting oxygen, slipping a BP cuff around her arm. "You did the right thing."
The words feel empty.
"What's her name?" Nurse Jon asks me.
"Sophie," My voice cracks, and I try to clear it. "Sophie Bracken."
Two more medical staff members rush in, snapping on gloves and moving as if they share a single mind. The room fills with clipped voices and the rhythmic beeps of machines hooked up to the love of my life.
I run my hands through my hair, pulling—punishing.
"Sophie, can you hear me?" Dr. Rashid asks, his voice firm, trying to catch her attention. Sophie doesn't respond, just continues shaking and breathing too shallow and too fast. "Sophie, can you open your eyes?"
She doesn't. All she does is continue trembling on the bed, her breath fast and uneven. I pull harder on my hair, wanting to tear it out, wanting to reach inside my own chest and rip my heart out.
"How old?" Nurse Jon asks, standing at one of the computers in the room.
"Thirty. She's thirty," her birthday party flashes through my mind like a punishment. Her delighted, surprised face when she saw the party, singing to her, asking her on a date, and kissing my cheek.
My promise of next year...
"I'm so happy... you make me so happy, Callum."
"You know what stage?"
I nod frantically. "Three. She was supposed to have chemo on Tuesday. She—she only had two more left."
"101.6 and climbing," Mary reports. "White count's probably bottomed out."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
"Page oncology," Dr. Rashid orders. "Full septic workup—blood cultures, urine, chest x-ray. Broad-spectrum antibiotics. IV fluids. Get her stabilized and isolated. Move!"
They wheel her toward the hallway, and my body moves automatically to follow, tethered to her—but Dr. Rashid steps into my path and gently stops me with a hand to my shoulder.
"We have it from here," he says, and his dark brown eyes soften. "We're going to take good care of your wife, sir."
Wife.
The word hits me in the chest like a shotgun blast, knocking the air from my lungs. The future I've been building in my head for months—marriage, a home, sunsets, maybe kids someday—dangles on the edge of a cliff, out of my reach.
Sophie Rhodes.
"I—I—please," I beg, my voice cracking, watching as she disappears into the back.
My words are soaked in grief, in guilt, in desperation.
"Please tell me she's gonna be okay. I should've brought her in earlier.
I should've known. I should've—fuck, I shouldn't have waited, I thought it was just a cold—I didn't think—I didn't think—"
"It's okay," another nurse—Leah from the name on her badge—soothes me.
She's older, maternal, with kind green eyes, and she lays a firm hand on my arm.
I finally notice that I'm dripping rainwater on the floor in the middle of the hospital, "We'll take care of your wife.
But we need you to breathe, and we need you to fill out some paperwork while Dr. Rashid stabilizes her. Nurse Mike will stay with you."
"Please," I whisper, voice breaking. "Please take care of her. She's... she's everything to me."
"Dr. Rashid is one of the best. She's in great hands," she says, before motioning toward a younger male nurse next to me—Nurse Mike—who calmly smiles at me. He lays a hand on my back, guiding me back to the front.
They give me a bunch of paperwork on a clipboard to fill out for her. My legs are completely numb as I sit down in an uncomfortable chair, the words on the page blurring in and out of focus.
"Callum," I glance up at my name and see my mom rushing over to me.
"Mom," my voice cracks in half as I stand up, clipboard falling to the ground, and I collapse in her arms.
She holds me tightly, her small frame absorbing every tremor shaking my body. I feel like a child again, crying into my mom's arms after kids at school bullied me, crying after the Lauren incident, where I wondered why I was so odd, why the world seemed cruel, and if things would ever get better.
This, though, feels a thousand times worse.
"Sophie..." I choke out. "Mom, it's my fault—she's sick, and—and I didn't—"
I sob, the sound loud and broken and ugly, and I don't care that I'm breaking open in the middle of this crowded waiting room. My mom squeezes me tighter, gently running her hand up and down my back to soothe me, just like she did when I was a kid.
I don't care that people are openly gawking at me. I don't care that people are looking at me with pity-filled eyes.
I only care about Sophie—my girl, my entire heart—somewhere behind those closed doors, fighting to stay alive.
I can't lose her, not like this, not when we just started.
I'm not ready.
She's not ready.
I lost my dad, and that devastated me.
If I lose Sophie...
I don't think I can come back from that.
"Storms always pass, sweetest heart. We just have to hold on."