Page 47 of In Their Hearts
A nurse gently blocks my path. “We’ll take good care of him,” she says, already turning away.
And just like that, I’m alone.
The waiting room is too bright. Too quiet. Time stretches and folds in on itself. My hands won’t stop shaking. I scrub them together like I can erase what happened, like I can rewind the day to a yardstick and an old man who wouldn’t stop talking.
I don’t understand any of this.
I want to wake up from this nightmare. This has to be a nightmare.
A doctor walks past, and my heart lurches. Every time the doors open, I look up, bracing myself for the worst. I rehearse it over and over, how I’ll survive it and how I won’t. You hear about these stories all the time.
I think about Clay laughing in the mornings, half-awake and warm. About the way he kisses my shoulder without thinking. About how ordinary today was supposed to be.
I press my palms into my eyes and whisper, “Please.” I don’t know who I’m talking to. God. Fate. Anyone listening. “Please help him live. Please.”
My heart is threatening to shatter.
When a nurse finally calls my name, my legs nearly give out. I stand anyway. I have to.
Because whatever comes next—whatever they say—I already know one thing with terrifying clarity.
If I lose him, I won’t just lose my husband.
I’ll lose the part of my soul that’s living.
They tell me he’s going to be okay.
The words don’t land all at once. They move slowly, like they’re wading through water to reach me. I nod, even though my body doesn’t believe them yet. Not fully. Not after everything.
“He’s stable,” the doctor says. “Very lucky.”
Lucky.
I cling to that word as it might anchor me.
When they finally let me see him, the room smells like antiseptic and is quiet. Machines hum softly, rhythmically, like they’re reminding him to keep breathing. Clay is pale, wrapped in blankets, with a thin line of dried blood near his hairline. But his chest rises. And falls.
I sit beside him and don’t touch him at first. I’m afraid I’ll wake him. Afraid I’ll realize I imagined all of this. He's alive, this room, and the relief pressing painfully against my ribs.
I reach for his hand anyway. It’s warm this time.
My breath stutters.
I stay here as the hours crawl by. The chair is uncomfortable, the lights too bright, but I don’t move. I don’t sleep. Every small sound pulls my attention back to him, every shift of his fingers and every change in the machines.
I replay the day over and over. Mr. Walden. The parking lot. The moment I turned my back. I keep trying to find the second where I could’ve stopped it, as if I just think hard enough, I’ll see it.
Guilt settles deep in my chest. Heavy. “It should’ve been me.”
I lean closer to Clay, my forehead resting against the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I don’t know exactly what I’m apologizing for. Leaving. Not knowing. Living in a world where this could happen to us.
At some point in the night, his fingers twitch. Then curl faintly around mine.
I freeze.
“Clay?” My voice shakes.
His eyes don’t open, but his grip tightens just enough to tell me he’s still here.
