Crumbling.
Crashing.
Washing away with the overwhelming tide of emotions I’ve ignored.
My knees begin to weaken the longer I try to stand and gather up the slipping grains into some resemblance of the shape they had before. But I can feel how futile it is. With clipped steps, I move past the living room full of blossoming joy, down the hall to the guest room where I spent my first night here.
I barely make it past the doorframe when the first sob bubbles, ugly and broken. I push the door in an attempt to keep the sound from reaching everyone else as I move to the bed, dropping heavily into the plush comforter. The tears blur the familiar room, slicing down my face in salty tracks before falling into my lap. My whole body shakes with how hard I cry, an outpouring of fear, sadness, and relief, and I lean heavily on one hand as I finally give in to feeling it.
“Beatie, do you—” Gus breaks through the half-closed door, his usual cloud of positive energy clashing instantly with my melancholy when he comes into the room. In that instant, I wish it were Violet who had come looking for me. Who had found me in this weakened state, wrung out as every sleepless hour I’ve given during Nicky’s recovery lands, blow after blow, against my already emotionally fragile system. But I don’t have time to let the embarrassment tumble into my already avalanching state. Gus merely seals the door shut with a soft snick before crossing to me, and there’s nothing but gratitude and relief when he reaches me. His arms wrap protectively around me, holding me without another word as I cry. Eventually, without thought of time, my breaths slow and I drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER 18
NICKY
Inever thought I would get tired of sleeping.
Over the last near-decade of my life I have grown used to living with a certain level of exhaustion. Always craving the opportunity for rest, but never having it because of practices, jobs, a baby…
Now, I’ve spent a week in the hospital and fall asleep when I come back from physical therapy. The doctor says it’s completely normal for my system to be overloaded by little things, and giving my body rest is the best thing I can do. I’m just tired of sleeping.
Sleeping means dreaming. Fragments of my life. Fractures of that night. Futures I can see but can’t touch.
“Good morning, Nicky,” Dr. Knowles calls from the door as she knocks softly on the frame. Her mask covers the smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. She carries a tablet and waits until I give a nod of greeting before she fully comes through the door. “Tired of the bed? That’s a good sign,” she comments, gesturing to the rumpled sheets of the hospital bed I vacated assoon as I awoke in a sweat a little while ago. I’m seated in one of the bedside chairs, all stiff vinyl and unyielding wood, facing the window to look out on the gray sky. I get to my feet and move toward the bed, but Dr. Knowles waves me off.
“We can talk here, if that’s all right with you.” I drop back into the chair, a hiss of air escaping out the sides of the padded seat. A protest from the piece of furniture due to years of use, no doubt. Dr. Knowles sets her tablet on a discarded rolling tray nearby and pulls her stethoscope from around her neck. With practiced motions, she inserts the pieces in her ears and lifts the round bell. I sit still, following her directions to breathe normally as she moves the bell around my chest, listening closely for a few minutes.
Finally satisfied, she affixes her stethoscope over her shoulders and makes a note in the digital chart on the tablet. Then she drags the matching chair to sit across from me and pulls her mask from her face. The smile I see isn’t her friendly greeting, but one of wonder and humor. “For the rest of my career, I don’t think I’ll ever have another patient like you.”
“Thank you?” I reply, tilting my head in confusion. My voice is still scratchy from the intubation tube and lack of use. Dr. Knowles laughs, a tinny, light sound at odds with the more severe pulled-back bun and buttoned-up shirt under her white coat.
“I’ve learned from the nurses you appreciate a certain level of honesty, so I’ll level with you.” Dr. Knowles angles her head to match mine. “By all medical measures, your experience tips you into the ‘miracle’ category.Commotio cordisis almost always fatal. Even with intervention, it’s not an injury we see many people come back from.”
Her words cause an ache to spread through my chest. Echoes of my injury, the more-than-a-mere-brush with death. Thesobering reality has haunted me, like a looming specter, every minute since waking up in this hospital.
“All of your tests are coming back normal. There’s no evidence of cognitive disruptions in the MRI. Your electrocardiogram is normal. Pulmonary functions are what we would expect to see in a young man with your physical health.” She ticks each point off on her fingers, warmth infusing each test I’ve passed successfully. It doesn’t fully soothe the unease coursing through me. “I’m not saying you could go out and play a game tomorrow, but aside from building your stamina up through physical and occupational therapy and a low-dose aspirin regimen for a while, your physical recovery should be almost one hundred percent.”
“Myphysicalrecovery?”
Dr. Knowles pulls a small, white card from the front pocket of her coat. She toys with it before holding it out between us in offering.
“It’s not uncommon for patients who have survived a severe cardiac incident to experience post-traumatic stress disorder.” Her voice has slipped into the detached, clinical tone I’ve often heard during my time here. It’s not unkind, but just like with my coaches on the ice, I can hear how much I need to pay attention to what she says. I glance down at the professionally designed business card.Adam Knowles, LPC-S, CCTP.“My brother is a therapist who specializes in trauma. He has a history of working with athletes, and he’s willing to take your call whenever you’re ready to talk to him.Ifyou’re willing to talk to him.”
I consider what she’snotsaying, and I’m grateful she can read more than just facts and figures on a medical chart. Maybe the nurses have been keeping a closer eye on me than I thought. How many of them have noticed my discomfort with sleeping, despite the exhaustion that still lingers through every action of my days here?
“Thank you,” I manage, my thoughts continuing to wander. “I’ll definitely consider it.”
Dr. Knowles presses her lips together and nods. She rises from her chair and returns to the discarded tablet, swiping and scrolling. She puts her face mask back in place, and she taps a few more times.
“Okay,” she begins. “Time to get you discharged. All aftercare instructions will be available in your online chart. We’ll have them printed for you to take with you. Will you have someone to stay with you for the first few days and be able to check in with you until all follow-up appointments are completed? I can provide the information for a very reputable in-home care service.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I have someone.” The unease that had colored my thoughts moments before disappears.
“Bea, right? British brunette with a quiet yet commanding attitude and fiercely protective streak?” Dr. Knowles asks, and my lips flicker with a smile. It’s not the most complete description of Beatrice Farrow, but that doesn’t make it inaccurate. “You know, the second day you were sedated, she checked the IDs of every staff member who came into your room? Scared some of my nurses with that intensity.”
The surprise I feel at learning that Bea spent an entire day by my side must show. Dr. Knowles’ light laugh is muffled as it tumbles from her.
“She made up for it the next day, when a fully catered lunch arrived for the floor staff.” She shrugs her shoulders, seemingly brushing aside the entire thing. “Included a handwritten thank you note, addressed to each of your care team. That’s an impressive woman. You’ll be in good hands.”
