"But you do."
"I understand that she almost died because of this life. One she never wanted to be part of but got forced back into. And I understand that she might never play violin again because they were too weak to put family first."
The elevator stops at the ICU floor. As we walk down the hallway, Fiona leans in and holds my arm as she speaks.
"When Livvie was little, maybe six years old, she found an injured bird in our garden. Tiny thing with a floppy wing. She insisted on nursing it back to health. Cormac said it was pointless. That the bird would die anyway, that she should let nature take its course. But Livvie refused. She fed it with an eyedropper, kept it warm, and talked to it for hours."
We reach Livvie's room. Through the window, I see her beautiful form against the stark white of the hospital bed, tubes and wires everywhere. My stomach fucking churns.
"Did it live?" I ask.
"For three weeks. And when it died, she cried for days. Cormac said she was foolish for getting attached to something that had an expiry date."
Fiona looks at me with green eyes that mirror her daughter's.
"But I think she learned something important that day. That even if ya can't save something, it's worth trying. It's worth caring."
I shake my head and sigh. "She almost died trying to save me."
"Because that's who she is. That's who I raised her to be." Fiona's voice is fierce with maternal pride. "Andyoulove her for it."
I do. God help me, I do.
The ICU is sterile and quiet, except for machines beeping like electronic heartbeats. Livvie’s left shoulder is wrapped in bandages, her arm immobilized. But she's breathing. Her heart is beating. She's alive.
I sink into the chair beside her bed and take her good hand in mine. Her skin is cold, but there's still a pulse beating in her wrist.
"I'm here, princess," I whisper. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Fiona takes the chair on the other side of the bed. For a while, we just sit in the quiet, watching Livvie breathe.
"If she can't play anymore," I say finally, "if that bullet took away her music…"
"Then you'll help her find new music," Fiona says. "That's what love does."
A nurse comes in to check vitals, smiling at us. "Are you family?"
"Husband," I say.
"Mother," Fiona adds.
"She's stable. Heart rate is good, blood pressure is coming up. The anesthesia should wear off in a few hours."
"Will my baby girl be okay?" Fiona asks.
The nurse hesitates. "The doctors will know more when she wakes up. Right now, we have no choice but to wait."
Wait. The hardest thing for a man like me to do.
I lean forward in the chair, pressing my lips to Livvie's hand. All that matters is my wife waking up. Everything else can wait.
But as the hours tick by and machines continue theirelectronic symphony, one thought keeps circling through my mind.
If she can't play violin anymore, if that bullet took away the thing she loves most, how do I live with being the reason her music died?
The thought sits in my chest like a lead weight, and I squeeze her hand tighter, willing her to squeeze back.
Willing her to come back to me.
