“Good, or else I would have killed her.”
Riley just nods even though I know he wanted to say something like this is not going to help or whatever. Jay joined us too, then Isla but we don’t chat. Not really. We just sit there like an odd group, waiting for someone to update us. It’s taking hours.
At dawn, a doctor finally finds us.
His face is a riddle, and I don’t want to solve it.
“She’s stable. In the ICU. But… she’s in a coma. We don’t know when, or if, she’ll wake up.”
The floor shifts under me. But I’m sitting and that’s just about what I register.
“Can I see her?”
He nods. “Of course. But only you since you’re her husband.”
I glance down at Livy and before I can say anything, Riley says, “Hey you know, give her to me. She can sleep at ours. Rory will have a blast.”
I hesitate at first, but then I know it’s the only right choice right now. I’m a mess.
“Thank you man.” I hand him Livy and tell the others that I’ll report back and the walk to Jenna’s room is the longest walk of my life. The world goes fuzzy at the edges. It’s unbelievable. I had it all. Everything I ever wanted, and I messed it up to a point of no return.
I step inside and there she is, a million wires and machines, tubes in her nose and mouth, the whole left side of her chest bandaged and swollen. Her hair is matted, but her pale face is so peaceful it makes me want to scream. I drop to my knees by the bed and take her hand, watching how her chest is rising and falling, just to make sure she is still breathing. I kiss every knuckle, every vein, every freckle on her hand, like maybe if I can warm her up enough, she’ll return from wherever she’s gone.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, over and over, until the words mean nothing. Somewhere at the back there’s a door closing but I don’t register it anymore. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Jenna’s eyelids don’t even flicker. I press my forehead to her palm, and for the first time in two decades, I let myself cry. Real, ugly tears that shake my whole body and make my nose run and my eyes burn. I let the grief eat me alive.
Because I know this is my fault.
All of it. My choices, my past, my stubbornness. I’d wanted to be a hero, but I’d only ever been a brute. And now the only person who ever truly challenged me, who saw through the armor, might never wake up because I was too fucking slow to realize she was everything. Too fucking slow to show her.
I stay at her side all night, and I don’t sleep. I don’t pray, either. I just keep telling her how much I love her, like it’s the only thing that can pull her back from the void.
Jenna, I love you.
I love you,Solnyshko.
I love you.
I love you forever and always.
I. Love. You.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Colton
Hospitals are designed to make you forget what time it is. That, or they make every hour feel like it’s time to give up and die.
I think if you’re not the one in the bed, you’re supposed to be grateful for every plastic cup of water, every chair that doesn’t collapse under you, every beep that doesn’t mean the person you love just flatlined.
But after two weeks of living in a chair beside Jenna’s ICU bed, I’d like to see whoever invented this flavor of “gratitude” step on a Lego and then tell me about the healing power of hope.
Jenna looks nothing like herself anymore, which is the main thing I think about, apart from all the things I should’ve done differently. The bruises come and go in bizarre constellations: purple and yellow on her cheek, blue on her collarbone, a greenish patch across her ribs. I watched them fade, move, get bigger. They shaved her hair on the left side to monitor the swelling, so there’s a pale bald stripe from temple to ear. She’s my cute little almost-cyborg now. Her arm is in a cast, her leg is suspended, and the ventilator hisses a rhythm that’s not quite intime with her heartbeat. But the worst part are her eyes—closed, unmoving. Not even a twitch. It’s killing me.
The doctors repeat the same three phrases every time they come around: “Critical but stable,” “reduced edema,” “remains comatose.” They talk about her as if she’s not there, like she’s a defective rental car that might one day be roadworthy again.
Sometimes they talk about me, too—usually when I haven’t left her room for ten hours or when I ask about experimental drugs. “Mr. Kirillov is coping,” they say. “Mr. Kirillov needs rest,” “Mr. Kirillov is in denial.” No one ever says, “Mr. Kirillov is the reason Jenna Davis ended up like this,” but I hear it anyway.
