Cecily
Getting from the car up to these hallways is just one big blur. My brain isn’t processing any of it. The only thing I’m actually aware of is Mark right beside me, his hand wrapped tight around mine.
‘I’m sorry, Cecily. I hate being the one telling you this.’
My eyes squeeze shut for a moment, even as my feet keep moving on their own. There’s a roaring in my ears, swallowing every coherent thought.
A few steps later, Mark murmurs, forcing my eyes open.
“It’s here. Room 616.”
I tighten my grip around his hand.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” he whispers.
I shake my head. “No... I should go in alone.”
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” Mark says kindly.
“No... you can go. I’ll probably be here for a while. I can take a taxi later, or something.”
I look at Mark just in time to catch him studying me, a thin line of worry etched between his brows. He doesn’t say a word; instead, he pulls me into a tight embrace.
“This won’t destroy you, Cecily,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice rough. “You’re stronger than this. You’re not alone. You have me, Ethan, Alicia, Felicity...” He hesitates for the smallest second. “Alexander. It’s going to be okay.”
I cling to him, squeezing hard, draining every drop of stability he’s offering.
When I finally pull back, the corridor seems longer. And the door to Room 616 feels like an insurmountable threshold.
I draw in a deep breath, and knock twice. Then, I wrap my fingers around the handle. And turn it.
The first thing that hits me is the sound. A metronomic beep of a cardiac monitor and the rhythmic sound of his own breathing. The room is cold and coated in that antiseptic bleach scent no hospital has ever managed to disguise.
My father—the man who has always seemed to fill an entire room simply by existing—looks smaller. Shrunken. He’s propped at a slight angle in the bed, his skin so pale it borders on gray beneath the fluorescent lights. There are wires everywhere: electrodes adhered to his exposed chest and a central line disappearing into his neck.
But his face is bare. No tube, no mask.That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
My gaze catches on the left side of his face. With nothing hiding his features, the damage is stark. His skin is just sagging, pulling his mouth down. It makes him look like someone else entirely, and it’s gut-wrenching to see.
“Dad?”
The word leaves me as a broken whisper, hanging in the cold room. He doesn’t stir. Not a flutter of an eyelid, or a twitch of a finger.
Only then do I notice movement in the corner of the room. My mother rises slowly from the couch where she’s been sitting. I go to her without thinking, pulling her into my arms.
“Oh... Cecily.” Her voice collapses into a sob as she folds into me, her body giving way.
Tears slide down my own cheeks as my body takes over the crying I can’t seem to access myself. I guide her back to the couch and hold her while she cries, stroking her hair in a gesture meant to soothe, even though I feel anything but in control.
When she finally stops crying, we sit side by side, staring at him. The monitor keeps time. His chest rises and falls.
I don’t know how long passes before I hear a knock at the door. Two taps. Then a third, hesitant, before it opens.
A doctor enters, likely in his fifties, followed by a young man and two younger women. White coats hang open over dark navy scrubs. ID badges rest against their chests. They wear the focused expressions of people who’ve been on their feet far too long. The young man has a tablet in his hands. One of the residents jots notes on a pad. The other observes everything with her full attention.
The doctor approaches, offering a professional smile. “Good evening. I’m Dr. Shapherd.”
I get to my feet, my legs trembling.
