My heart stutters at that.
"Everything is alright with her head?"
"Yes," she reassures me quickly. "We did a CT scan—no bleeding, no swelling. Just a bad knock to the head, which is common with accidents like this. I would expect her to experience headaches and light sensitivity for a bit. With rest, her body will know how to heal itself."
All the air escapes my lungs as her words wrap around me like a blanket.
My wife, my baby.
She's okay. She's going to heal.
She's got some bumps and bruises, but she's alive and breathing and safe.
"Thank you, Dr. King," I whisper, my voice cracking in half. The tears fall from my eyes, and I don't even care; let them fall, let everyone see. My wife is okay, that's all that matters. "Just... thank you so much."
"Of course," she says with a sincere smile, patting my hand. Her expression shifts, like she wants to impart the seriousness of her words. "However, the recovery will be extremely important."
I nod, leaning forward to let her know I'm listening.
"For the first couple of weeks, she won't be walking at all," Dr. King continues. "After that, mobility will come slowly—walker, physical therapy, short distances. This kind of injury requires patience. Pushing too hard, too fast can set her back."
"Understood," I nod.
"She'll need assistance getting in and out of bed, showering, and, yes, using the bathroom. Physical therapy will start early, but it'll be very slow at first. We're not looking just at weeks, we're looking at months."
Dr. King could tell me that I'll need to carry Wendy in my arms for the rest of our lives, and I would do it.
Whatever she needs, I will do for her.
"I can do that," I say instantly, without blinking. "I'll take care of her."
"Good," Dr. King chirps cheerfully, slapping her knees with both hands. A gold wedding band glints from her finger, and the sight of it soothes something in me. "We'll go over everything again once she's awake and more alert. For now, let's get you to her."
???
She looks small.
Wendy's always been tall, larger than life in my eyes, as immense and bright as the fucking sun.
But she looks so small lying in this hospital bed. The dimmed light can't hide how bright red hair is against the sterile white of the walls and the sheets. She's still asleep, wrapped under layers of hospital blankets to keep her warm in this cold room.
The blanket over her waist is thicker, and, as Dr. King explained on the way, they put a binder at her hips to keep everything in place as she heals.
There's a bruise at her temple from where her head smacked against the window, a thin bandage above her left eyebrow, and there's a breathing cannula under her nose. Her hands are attached to so many wires—an IV in her hand, pulse ox on her finger—and my eyes track one to her heart monitor.
It's beating in an even rhythm that calms me slightly.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
"Baby..." I whisper, going to her.
Dr. King moves fast, grabs a chair from the corner, and brings it over to me. I nod in thanks and take a seat, my hand hovering over my wife's. Her rings glint from her finger, and the sight of them undoes me a little.
I look at the doctor desperately, "Can I touch her?"
"Of course," Dr. King encourages, gesturing for me to do so. "Talk to her, too. I've found it's soothing to patients to hear their loved ones' voices."
With her permission, I take my wife’s hand in both of mine. It's cold, so I close my fingers around it and bring it to my lips to kiss.
