Though I’m shaken by the sight of the bloody bandage around Mom’s shaved head, I try to sound positive when I say hello to her. I bend and kiss her on the cheek, but a tear spills from my eye as I take in all the bruises and lacerations.
“You’re doing great, Mom,” I say shakily. “I love you so much. Please come back to us, because we need you. You’re everything.”
Connor, on the other side of the bed, grasps her hand. “Hi, Mom. I’m here too. We’re both here. And Becky.”
Becky approaches and gives Mom a kiss on the cheek. She speaks loving words in her ear.
I remain at Mom’s side and stroke her arm. She’s deathly pale, and if it weren’t for the respirator and the IV fluids pumping medications into her system, she wouldn’t be alive. Her body is so badly damaged she’s not strong enough to survive on her own.
“Mom, we love you. Please keep fighting. We need you to wake up. We’ll be here for you, no matter what.”
I can scarcely stomach the smells of antiseptic and blood, and tears start pouring down my cheeks. I become aware of Connor’s hand on my back, rubbing in slow circles because I’m crying again.
At least I have my brother. I’m grateful for his strength, even though he’s only thirteen, and I’m thankful we have each other.
“She made it this far,” he says. “She’ll make it the rest of the way.”
His optimism refills me with hope. I turn in my chair and hug him tight.
Later in the day, Becky returns to our house to pick up Oscar and take him to her house for the night. Connor leaves the hospital to get some food on Spring Garden Road. I stay in the ICU because I want some time alone with Mom. I have so many questions, and part of me believes that if she hears me asking them, she might fight harder to wake up and tell me the truth.
“Mom, they’re saying terrible things about Dad.” I sit forward in the stiff chair and clasp her hand. It feels cold and bony, not like normal. I’m distracted by this, but I focus my thinking and push on. “Becky told me that you talked to a lawyer about a divorce, and that you and Dad were arguing about money for the restaurant. Is it true? Were you arguing before you were swept off the rocks? Or did he push you?” I fight to keep my voice from breaking. “I think he might be in trouble. The police took him to the station. They said they’d bring him back, but it’s been hours, and he hasn’t answered my texts.”
I stare at Mom, but in her coma, there’s no life in her, no response whatsoever. I feel alone and abandoned, but I don’t want to give up hope that she can hear me. I need to believe that she can. I want to have some effect, so I keep talking.
“Is it true?” I ask again. “Did he push you? I don’t want to believe it, I really don’t, but after what Becky told me, I’m confused. I feel like I don’t know either of you, because I had no idea any of this was happening—that you were arguing about money and talking to a lawyer about a divorce. So please, Mom, wake up so you can tell me what’s happening and take care of us if Dad goes to jail.”
I sound desperate, and I know it. I’m begging and pleading. I’m borderline hysterical, but it makes no difference because she isn’t listening. I don’t even know if her soul is still in there. Maybe she’s just a shell of the mother I love, and it’s only the machines keeping her alive.Where are you, Mom? Where did you go?
I can’t take it. Even though she’s lying right here in front of me, I miss her terribly, and I can’t imagine my life without her.
I break down again, and hot, stinging tears stream down my face.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nate
“Thanks for getting me out of there,” I say to Arthur as we descend the police station steps.
My relief is off the charts. There were moments when I expected to be cuffed, dragged to jail, and locked up. I can’t even fathom how I’ll endure it if that happens. I’ll never be able to live with the shame.
“They couldn’t hold you indefinitely,” Arthur replies.
We reach his car—a silver Mercedes-AMG GT Coupe—and I pause on the sidewalk. “Is this new?”
“Not really,” he replies. “I got it a year ago. Get in.”
I open the car door and slide into the black leather-upholstered passenger seat. Arthur buckles his seat belt and starts the engine.
“How’s Sienna doing?” he asks. “Any improvement?” He checks his rearview mirror and pulls onto the road.
“No. She had surgery this morning, and the kids are terrified that she won’t wake up.”
He speaks with genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do, say the word.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes, and it’s awkward because we haven’t spoken since the kids were little. I’m to blame for that because I’ve been so busy with the restaurant. I turned down a lot of invitations to his house. I’m pretty sure the last time he called, I never called him back. He must have given up on me, because he stopped calling.
