Chapter 36 #2
But the clock keeps ticking its relentless rhythm, reminding me of how little control we have. Every tick is like my own heartbeat, each one a test of my will.
And then, finally, the door opens and a nurse steps through.
“Family of Callan MacKenzie?”
In an instant, we’re all on our feet, a collective surge of energy and urgency.
“He’s out of surgery,” she says, and the room seems to exhale all at once, a rush of relief, of hope flickering back to life. “He’s stable for now, but his injuries are severe. He’s being moved to the ICU. The doctor will be out shortly to explain more.”
Lucy grabs my arm, the pressure in her grip desperate and shaky. Whether it’s from hope or dread, I can’t tell. I want to tell her everything will be fine, but I can’t find the words.
“Can we see him?” Callan’s mom, Sam, asks.
The nurse nods, her face remaining neutral. “You’ll need to wait until he’s settled in the ICU, but after that, yes. Only two visitors at a time, though,” she adds. “The doctor will let you know.”
“Thank you,” Knox says quietly. He’s holding it together, but I can see the effort it’s taking.
We sink back into our seats. Lucy is crying, her mom’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, offering what little comfort she can. Knox resumes his pacing, each step a reflection of the unease he’s carrying, while Callan’s stepdad, Paul, stares blankly at the floor, his face set in a mask of shock.
I lean into Juliette. I don’t know how I’d manage without her. “He’s going to be okay,” she murmurs, but I catch the subtle tremor in her voice.
Finally, the doctor steps into the room. He introduces himself, but the name doesn’t stick. It’s just background noise, insignificant compared to the information we’re about to hear.
“Mr. MacKenzie’s condition is critical but stable,” he begins, his tone calm and clinical.
“He sustained significant injuries, including several broken ribs, one of which caused a punctured lung. He has a severe concussion, and there was internal bleeding that we’ve managed to control.
His right leg was also badly fractured and required surgical intervention. ”
Each injury feels like a blow, each word a sharp jab that knocks the breath from my lungs. My stomach churns, and I fight the urge to collapse.
He’s hurt. He’s broken.
The doctor’s gaze softens slightly, but his words don’t waver. “The next few days are going to be critical. We’ll be monitoring him closely for complications, especially with the head injury and his lung. He’s sedated and on a ventilator to help him breathe. The ventilator is temporary.”
I swear the ground falls away beneath me as I dig my nails into my palms to keep upright.
“Can we see him now?” someone asks, but the voice seems so distant, like it’s coming from a far-off place. I don’t even know who spoke.
The doctor nods, but there’s hesitation in his eyes. “He’s unconscious, and he won’t look like himself. I want to prepare you for that. There’s swelling, bruising, and he’s hooked up to multiple monitors. It can be difficult to see a loved one in that condition.”
Difficult doesn’t even begin to cover it. There’s a knot forming in my stomach, but I don’t care about the bruising, the swelling, or the monitors. I need to see him. I need to see with my own eyes that he’s alive, that he’s here, and that he’s still him.
Knox’s hand on my shoulder startles me. “You should go first, with Mum,” he says softly. “He’d want to see you.”
I glance around the room, taking in the weary, worried faces of his family. My eyes land on Lucy and Paul, who offer quiet, encouraging nods.
“Are you sure?”
There’s no hesitation, no argument. Just understanding. “Of course,” Paul says. “You go with Sam.”
A nurse leads us down the hallway, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling my lungs with each step. My heart pounds, each beat echoing in my ears, a rhythm of anticipation and dread.
We stop outside one of the rooms with the door slightly ajar. I take a breath, trying to force my body into some semblance of calm. The nurse turns to face us, her expression unreadable. Her eyes soften when they meet mine.
“It might be shocking at first.”
I nod, my throat tight. My body is on edge, a coil of tension threatening to snap with the next breath. I steel myself for what I know is coming.
The nurse pushes the door open, and as soon as it swings back, Sam gasps beside me.
The sight hits me like a physical blow, the force of it stealing the air from my lungs.
Callan, my strong, vibrant Callan, lies utterly still.
His body is unrecognizable beneath the bruises and swelling, a shadow of the man I know.
The stark white hospital sheets contrast painfully with the vividness of his injuries, the raw colors that seem to scream of tragedy and instability.
Tubes and wires snake around him, connecting him to the monitors, their rhythmic pulses both a comfort and a curse. The melodic beeps are reminders that he’s alive, that his heart is still beating, but the ventilator humming in the background is unnatural, too mechanical, too foreign.
I reach for the doorframe, gripping it so tightly my fingers burn. I use it as an anchor to keep myself standing. I’ve seen this scene before. Monitors, tubing, machines doing the work a body can’t. It’s part of my world. It’s my job. I’ve stood at bedsides like this more times than I can count.
But this is Callan.
His chest rises and falls with the help, and it’s not the man I remember. Not the man whose smile could light up a room. Not the man who laughed with me, who held me, who made me feel safe.
This man, lying in front of me, feels so far away. So breakable.
“Callan,” I whisper, his name falling from my lips like a fragile prayer. My voice cracks, but it’s all I can manage. Just a breath of sound that trembles in the sterile air.
I’ve been holding it together, trying so hard to be strong for him, for myself, for the possibility that everything will somehow turn out okay. Now, standing here, looking at him so small, so broken in that hospital bed, a sob rises in my throat.
I try to hold it back, to force it down, but it breaks free anyway, spilling from me in broken, desperate gasps. The ground splinters beneath me, my knees buckle, I’m falling. I slide to the floor, clutching the doorframe.
Sam steps past me, her movements careful and deliberate. She approaches the bed, her face drawn, and I watch her reach for his hand, her fingers trembling as she closes the distance. Her silent strength makes this harder. All I can do is sit here, paralyzed.
I should be by his side. I should be the one holding his hand, offering the reassurance that he’ll come back to me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath ragged and uneven, as I try to wrestle the grief and the fear back into submission. I need to get a grip. I need to be strong for him. He needs me. It doesn’t matter if every part of me is breaking.
Sam’s eyes meet mine, but she doesn’t say anything at first. Then she steps towards me, her hand reaching out. “Oh, Bree,” she says. “Come here, sweetheart.”
It shouldn’t be her responsibility to comfort me right now. This is her son, her child, lying there fighting for his life. Yet somehow, Sam is the one being strong, holding it together when I’m barely keeping my composure.
I take a shaky breath, forcing my legs to move, and with a trembling hand, I take Sam’s outstretched one. Her grip is firm, and she doesn’t let go until she’s sure I’m steady enough to stand on my own before she steps back, giving me the space I need.
Up close, it’s even worse. The sight of him, bruised and battered, is more than I can bear.
His face is a map of cuts and contusions, a tragedy in itself.
The slow rise and fall of his chest is wrong, controlled.
It’s not him breathing. It’s the ventilator, and it feels like a cruel impersonation of what should be.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Sam says. “I’ll go see who would like to come in next.”
Her strength amazes me. This is her boy, and yet she’s the one standing tall when the rest of us are falling apart.
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, and slowly move closer to him.
My hand hovers over his, my fingers trembling as I fight the paranoia that I might hurt him, like he could shatter under my touch.
After what feels like an eternity, I gently rest my fingers against his hand, careful to avoid the IV lines and the tubes. His skin is cool under my touch.
I close my eyes for just a second, allowing the tears to fall, even though I told myself I wouldn’t cry. “You’re so stubborn, you know that?” I whisper. A weak laugh escapes me, despite everything. “So you’d better fight, Callan. You don’t get to give up. Not now, not ever.”
The ventilator hums in response, its rhythm too artificial. My grip tightens around his hand, desperate for some kind of sign to prove that he’s still here, still fighting. Anything.
I take a seat beside him, pressing my forehead to the edge of the bed. “I need you to come back to me.”
I lift my head slowly, my eyes searching his face for any sign of recognition, any indication that he hears me. That he knows I’m here. There’s nothing.
God, what I wouldn’t give to lose myself in those devastating blue eyes that somehow tear me down and build me back up, all in the same breath.
To hear that strong rumble of his laugh that digs under my skin and settles in my bones.
To feel the heat of that stupidly perfect grin that cracks through every hard day.
The ache isn’t just in my chest. It’s everywhere, like something fundamental inside me has been scraped out. I swear I can still feel him, but it’s like I’m pressing my palm against glass, watching him from the other side, knowing that no matter how hard I push, I can’t reach him.
It’s the most suffocating feeling I’ve ever known.