“How did she look? Did everything go okay?”
Her mother looks to her father, who pulls Sybil into his side. “The surgeon said she did well. Better than expected, given the mechanism of her injury.”
“But I never imagined seeing my daughter this way. She looks so frail,” Sybil cries.
“You should go on home, Alex. You’ve had a long day.”
“No,” I blurt. “I… I can’t.”
Sybil pulls me in for a tight hug, and it’s then, I’m sure. She knows. For the briefest of moments, I wonder how long they’ve known but dismiss it almost as soon as the thought presents itself.
“They have a family waiting area there. I’m not sure when you’ll be able to see her, but at least you’ll be close if that time comes.”
“Thank you,” I squeak out.
The three of us make our way to the STICU waiting area. We aren’t there long before Scott excuses himself to check in at the nurses’ station to provide his contact information and share we’ll be in the waiting area. He returns to let Sybil know they’ve transferred Tuesday from recovery into her room, and I’m once again left to sit and wait.
Why couldn’t it have been me?
* * *
I look at my watch. It’s almost midnight. The Palmers went home saying they wanted to get a good night’s rest to prepare for the day ahead and encouraged me to do the same. But I just can’t leave her here.
I’ve turned this little waiting area into a makeshift motel, stripping off my boots and turnout gear. While I have no other shoes, at least I have my uniform pants and matching navy blue T-shirt with Hanover Fire’s emblem imprinted on it.
Leaning my elbows on my knees, my head cradled in my hands, I try to shake the memory of my sweet Sunny smiling at me as that car skidded right into her. As much as it haunts me, I can only imagine what she’ll have to contend with. Hopefully, she didn’t have a chance to see it coming for her.
“Young man.”
“Oh!” I jump from the seat.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t realize anyone was still here until I came over to turn the lights off.”
I stare blankly at her. I’m not sure how to respond without one more person trying to send me home. Hell, I can’t even sleep in my car. I’d have to Uber home, and I’m. Not. Leaving. Her. Here.
“Who are you here for?”
“Tuesday.” My voice cracks. “Tuesday Palmer.”
The kind older nurse reaches for my hand, and I panic. Has something happened?
“Would you like to sit with her?”
“Wha? Really? I can see her?” My eyes well with tears.
“Oh, come with me.” She pats my hand and tucks it into her elbow.
“Wait. I don’t have any shoes.”
The nurse gives me a peculiar look until I point to all of the gear I’ve just removed. “Ah. I’ll get you some footies. It’ll be all right.”
She directs me to a large circular room with nurses and technicians sitting in the center, telemetry monitors beeping incessantly overhead. Across from them, the patient rooms line the perimeter. Each room with glass doors allowing easy observation of the patient resting inside.
And then I see her. The room is dim, with only a mild light shining from the monitors overhead. It creates almost a halo effect, making Tuesday look like an angel. The nurse reaches forward to slide the doors open, and a tear falls free.
“Thank you.” I sniffle. “I didn’t think I’d get to see her, but I couldn’t-”
“There, there. What’s your name?”
