Chapter Twenty-Eight
Amanda
It’s lucky I don’t get a speeding ticket on my way to the hospital, because my head is firing on all cylinders. I’m in panic mode, afraid we won’t make it in time, that Mom will slip back into the coma before we arrive. Or, worse, something will go wrong and she’ll die.
I glance at Connor in the passenger seat beside me. “Has Dad texted?”
“Not yet.”
“Where is he?” I ask irritably. “Can you at least text Becky and tell her that Mom’s awake?”
He thumbs a message, and within seconds, Becky calls us. I answer on the car speakerphone. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me. She’s awake?”
“Yes!” I shout elatedly. “We’re on our way to the hospital now.”
“I’m grabbing my purse, and I’ll be there soon as I can,” she replies.
“Do you know where Dad is?” I ask. “He said he went to the hospital this morning, but he’s not there. I don’t even think he knows Mom’s awake.”
“I’ll try the restaurant,” Becky says. “And I’ll see you soon.”
I park the car, and we get out and sprint to the hospital entrance. The elevator ride takes forever, stopping at different floors to let people on and off. But at last, we reach the ICU and are buzzed inside.
Familiar with the routine, we sanitize our hands and don yellow gowns outside Mom’s room. Her nurse comes out to greet us, and her smile is infectious. It sends an abundance of happiness into my heart.
“She’s still okay?” I ask.
“Doing great,” the nurse replies. “She’s a fighter. She made it clear she wanted to breathe on her own, so we removed the tube, and she’s able to talk now.”
“Can we go in?”
The nurse speaks gently. “Yes, but keep in mind that she’s been through a lot, and she’s still very tired and groggy from the pain medication.”
“What about her motor skills?” Connor asks, not having forgotten our initial conversation with the doctor.
“So far, so good,” the nurse replies. “But head injuries can be unpredictable, so we’ll need to keep a close eye on her for a few days.”
I’m listening, but all I want to do is see my mother.
The nurse finally ushers us into the room, where I pull to an abrupt halt. Mom is asleep on the bed, without the breathing tube. The room is quiet, and it’s a gift not to hear the ominous sound of the ventilator.
Connor and I move to either side of the bed. She must feel our presence, because she opens her eyes and looks at each of us in turn with love. I tremble and cry tears of relief. Mom holds out her arms to us, and we bend over her, crying and hugging and kissing the sides of her face.
“I love you, Mom.” I cherish her lips on my temple as she kisses my tears away.
“I’m happy to see you both,” she says in a weak, raspy voice.
I draw back and look more carefully at her. The cuts and bruises on her face seem insignificant now, blessedly superficial. What mattersis that she’s awake and she knows who we are. She’s able to speak to us. But I can see that she’s weary.
“Rest now, Mom.” I run my hand over the bandage on her head. “We want you to get better so you can come home.” She nods and closes her eyes. I glance across at Connor. “She needs to sleep, but she’s okay.”
He wipes his forearm across the tears on his face.
We look around for chairs and pull them close to the sides of the bed, where we sit down and hold Mom’s hands.
Beyond the window glass, outside the room, a team of nurses and doctors stand in a circle and discuss something at length. The nurse in charge of Mom is sitting at a portable rolling desk, on the other side of the glass, watching us. She smiles at me, and I smile back, feeling overwhelmed by my gratitude for the care that Mom has received.
