Elliot was waiting outside my bedroom door. He’d dragged one of the chairs from the dining room over so he could sit right in the hall. He’d been there for two hours, by the look of him.
“She asleep?” He rushed to his feet as soon as he saw me.
I nodded. I wouldn’t speak unless I had to.
Elliot reached out to place his hand on my shoulder. Even though I flinched from the contact, he kept his hand there and squeezed.
“I’ll go sit with her.” He jutted his chin toward my room. “In case she wakes. I’ll call you if she does. Go be with Hannah.”
Again, it pained me to even think of being under a different roof than Clara, but she’d want me to be with Hannah, that much I knew. She’d wailed the house down, thrashing and screaming because I’d told her we couldn’t be with her at the hospital.
I’d questioned my choice. I still questioned it now. But I couldn’t have her back in that place, not if it might be the last place she saw Hannah.
Not that seeing Hannah bleeding out in the snow was better. Whatwasthe better option? What would hurt Clara less? I didn’t know. I prayed I’d made the right decision.
“Thank you,” I croaked at my brother. It was all I could manage.
He gave me a sharp nod, squeezed my shoulder again, then quietly entered my room.
If Clara woke, he’d be there for her. Hopefully able to calm her. My chest ached leaving her, even in the presence of someone she loved.
My father stopped me in the living room before I left. He was holding a mug of tea, his eyes shiny as he took me in. He placedthe tea on the coffee table, moving in two quick strides to bring me into his arms.
I didn’t want the contact, the comfort. But reflexively, my body relaxed into his, and I quietly cried in my father’s arms for thirty seconds. It was what I allowed myself before pulling back.
My father’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “She’ll come back to you, son. Have hope.”
I didn’t dismiss my father’s words because he was the kindest man I knew, and his face was painted with hurt.
I merely nodded then left to be with Hannah.
She was out of surgery by the time I arrived, Calliope relaying all the facts to me with brutal precision. She didn’t offer hugs, thank fuck.
Critical.
Her condition was critical.
She was in the ICU. It was past visiting hours, apparently. But Calliope had taken care of that. I didn’t ask her how, I just thanked her before beelining it for Hannah.
It was a cruel twist of fate that I’d lived to see both of my girls lying in hospital beds, unsure if they’d ever make it out.
Hannah looked so small in that bed.
She was connected to so many things. Heart rate monitors. An IV. A tube down her throat. Because she couldn’t breathe on her own.
I made myself look at her. I made myself take in every single detail. The shade of white of her bedsheets. The smell of cleaning products and faint whiff of someone else’s perfume. The pallor of her skin. Her hair splayed over the pillow.
Every detail, I etched in my mind, to revisit, to punish myself with. To show myself what happened when I made choices for Hannah about what was best for her. Two men took her choice away from her. One with a gun, the other with words.
Then I sat. I grasped her too-cold hand, I shouted at nurses.
And I waited.
For life to give me another miracle.
One I didn’t deserve.
But Hannah sure as fuck did.
