Fuck.Fuck. What have I done?
By the time we start to descend, my hands and feet are numb with nerves, and a cold sweat is prickling the back of my neck.
“I’ll get you a rental car,” Heather says, once we’re in the terminal. “Did you bring any clothes with you at all?”
“Er...” I glance down at my bag, which I know for a fact only contains my laptop, Jacob’s coffee cup, and his hoodie.
“Didn’t think so. I’ll run to the shops and get you some stuff, then I’ll check us in to the hotel. I’ll text you your room number.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my way to the hospital in a rental car. Siri guides me back to Hôpital Nord. As I step into the familiar lobby, my pulse quickens. I’m trying to remember the hopeful tone of Dr. Martin’s voice, but being back here, all I can remember is the fear I felt two weeks ago.
God, has it really been two weeks?
The USI waiting room is empty. It’s almost nine p.m., and the hospital feels unnaturally quiet. I take a moment to center myself before I press the buzzer. Beyond this door, Jacob might already be awake.
After a few minutes, a harried-looking nurse lets me in without asking any questions. Breathing quickly, I stride toward Jacob’s room. I don’t care if his family’s there. I have to see him.
The door to his room is half open, and there’s an alarming beeping sound echoing from beyond the doors. A nurse hurries out of the room, speaking rapid French over her shoulder. Heart in my throat, I rush through the doors.
Three nurses are crowded around Jacob’s bed while his mother stands against the wall in the corner, her eyes wide and frightened. Jacob is moving—actuallymovingon his own—and fighting the nurses at his sides. He’s trying to pull the breathing tube out, I realize, and by the frantic way the nurses are acting, he isn’t supposed to do that himself.
I don’t stop to think, I just push my way to his side. His eyes are open, but they’re hazy and confused.
“Hey—look at me,” I order, putting my hand on his cheek. “Look at me, okay?”
He twists toward the sound of my voice, and when his frightened eyes lock on mine, something shifts in my chest, something undoable, something forever.
“Stay really still for me, okay?” I say. The nurses have stopped fighting, but they’re keeping a tight grip on his arms. His eyes are on my face, and he makes an awful retching sound, like he’s trying to cough the tube out.
“I know,” I say. “I know. Just try to stay still for me, okay? Just for a little bit.”
“The doctor is here,” one of the nurses says, stepping back. Dr. K walks into the room, pulling on a pair of blue gloves and wearing a calm, soothing smile.
“Ah, Monsieur Travis,” she says pleasantly, nodding at me like it makes total sense that I’m here. “What have we here?”
“He’s trying to pull the tube out,” I say, while the nurses elaborate in French. Dr. K nods at all of us.
“Well, let’s get that tube out, then, yes?” she says pleasantly.
There’s a flurry of activity while the nurses gather equipment. One of them tries to gently guide me out of the way, but Dr. K shakes her head and I get to stay close, one hand on Jacob’s neck, the other on his arm.
“Just a little longer,” I tell him. “You’re doing great.”
In one swift movement, Dr. K and the nurses pull out the breathing tube. Jacob curls toward me, coughing and gagging. He grasps weakly at my cotton T-shirt, and I don’t care that the room is filled with people—I curl my fingers into his hair and kiss the top of his head, every bit of me shaky with relief and fear.
“We will need to watch his levels of oxygen closely,” Dr. K says. She’s turned to talk to someone in the corner. Jacob’s mom, I remember with a thud. I risk a glance and find her staring at me, shock and horror written over her face. A second later, the situation is made a hundred times worse by the arrival of Jacob’s brother.
“What the hell is going on?” he demands, taking in the sight of the nurses, who are clearing away the plastic tubing they pulled from Jacob’s throat, and me, sitting there with my arms wrapped around his little brother, my fingers curled intimately in the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Ah, Monsieur Paul,” Dr. K says briskly. “As you can see, we have removed the breathing tube. Very good progress.”
“What the hell is this?” Paul repeats, ignoring her. He steps closer, his eyes on me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Instinctively, I pull Jacob a little closer, as though I can shield him from Paul’s anger. But before I can think of anything tosay—not that I could’ve come up with anything, even if I had an hour—Dr. K jumps in.
“Pardon,” she says briskly. “We need calm in this room, please.”
