I lead Sanders to the chair beside Leigh. I tell them both to sit tight until we get back. I pray to God that we come back with good news.
The consultation room smells of industrial cleaner. I sit rigidly in the upholstered chair beside Woody while Carly paces. My throat is tight, like someone's wrapped invisible hands around it and squeezed.
Our shoulders almost touch. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the same warmth I woke up to this morning, before everything shattered.
Dr. Mitchell enters with a tablet in hand, his scrubs crisp despite the early hour. His face reveals nothing as hewalks up to Carly. Woody stands up to join them, so I follow suit.
"Ms. Turner?—"
"Dr. Mitchell, please tell me my baby is okay. We are so close. I need him to hold on."
"Luke's electrolytes crashed suddenly. His potassium rose quickly, and his body couldn’t clear the fluid fast enough. That put major stress on his heart, causing it to slow dangerously, which is why he didn’t wake up. We gave him emergency dialysis and medications to stabilize his potassium, and his heart responded well."
My throat coils into a tight knot. I grip the edge of my chair. The fluorescent lights overhead make everything look harsh, unreal.
"He's stable now, but this shows how fragile he is. He doesn't have the reserves to bounce back from another episode."
Stable but not safe.
Stable but not safe.
Stable but not safe.
The words circle in my head like vultures. I think of Sanders outside with Leigh, his eyes wild with fear. I think of thin Luke's body hooked to machines that are keeping him alive. I think of the fundraiser, the kidney, the plans, all suddenly hanging by the thinnest thread.
Woody leans forward. "What's his potassium level now?"
"We've brought it down to 5.2," Dr. Mitchell replies matter-of-factly. "But we're watching closely."
"And his cardiac rhythm?"
"Normalized. We're keeping him on continuous monitoring."
They continue speaking, a quiet exchange of medical terms that blur together in my ears.Woody is in his element, asking precise questions, nodding at responses, his face calm but focused.
I'm lost, small, like I'm shrinking in this chair while problems tower over me. Control has always been my safety net, my way of making sense of chaos. But here, under these merciless lights, with machines keeping a little boy alive, what control do any of us really have?
"We'll need to adjust his dialysis schedule," Dr. Mitchell says. "And notify Duke, which my nurse is doing while we speak."
"We're next on the pediatric list. We finished all of the pre-op consultation yesterday," Carly blurts out, holding onto the hope that with everything in motion, we can stave off another episode, as the doctor put it.
Woody nods grimly. "When can we see him?"
"Once he's settled in the pediatric ICU. I'd say give them twenty minutes to get him set up."
Dr. Mitchell rises, tucking his tablet under his arm. "I'll update you when there's news."
I stand on legs that feel like they're made of water. Woody's hand brushes against the small of my back as we move toward the door. It's a touch so light it might have been accidental.
But I know it wasn't.
Carly asks us to stay with her for now, that she doesn't want to be alone, that's exactly what we do. Time blurs, and slowly despair recedes.
I stare at the neon clock on the wall: 1:13 PM. We've been sitting in this waiting room for almost three hours now.
The vinyl chair sticks to the back of my legs. Only two visitors besides his mom are allowed in the ICU, so I volunteered to stay out here with Leigh and then Sanders when Woody made the exchange.
Sanders leans against me, head heavy on my shoulder, his thumb tracing slow circles on my sleeve. His eyelids droop with exhaustion after crying himself empty. My poor boy, shouldering worries no nine-year-old should have to carry.
