“How long is the surgery? Is he conscious? Were there any other injuries?” Beckett speaks for the first time, rapidly firing off the questions we are all thinking.
Dr. Irons swallows and steeples his fingers in front of him while meeting Beckett’s eyes. “As for other injuries, just minor ones in comparison to the head injury. He is not conscious nor has he regained consciousness at this time. He was in the typical comatose state we see with these injuries—mumbling incoherently, struggling against us—in very sporadic bouts. As for everything else, we’ll know more when we get into surgery and see how bad the bleed on the brain is.”
Beckett exhales the breath he’s been holding, and I can see his shoulders slump with its release, although I’m unsure if it’s in relief or resignation. None of the doctor’s words have made the dread weighing down the pit of my soul lessen any. Quinlan steps forward and grabs Becks’ hand as she glances over at her parents before asking the one thing we all fear. “If the swelling doesn’t stop with the surgery...” her voice wavers, Beckett pressing a brotherly kiss onto the top of her head in encouragement “...what … does that mean? What I’m trying to say is you’re talking brain injury here so what is the prognosis?” Her breath hitches with a swallowed sob. “What are Colton’s chances?”
The doctor sighs aloud and looks at Quinlan. “At this time, before we go into surgery and see if there is any damage, I’m not comfortable giving one.” The strangled gasp that comes from Andy breaks the silence. Dr. Irons steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder until Andy looks up and meets his eyes. “We are doing absolutely everything we can. We are very practiced in this sort of thing and are giving your son every benefit of that training. Please understand that I’m not giving a percentage because it’s a lost cause, but rather because I need to see more to know what we’re up against. Once I know, then we can establish a game plan and go from there.” Andy nods subtly at him, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and Dr. Irons looks up and scans the faces of everyone in the room. “He is strong and healthy and that’s always a good thing to have on our side. It’s more than obvious Colton is loved by many people … please know I carry that knowledge into the operating room with me.” With that he gives a tight smile then turns and leaves the room.
Upon his departure, no one moves. We are all still in shock.
All still letting the severity of his words slither into the holes poked through our resolve. People slowly start moving and shifting as thoughts meld and emotions attempt to settle.
But I’m unable to.
He’s alive. Not dead like Max. Alive.
The dull ache of relief I feel is nothing compared to the sharp stab of the unknown. And it’s not enough to assuage the fear seated deep in the depths of my soul. I start to feel the leeching claws of claustrophobia burn over my skin. I blow out a long breath trying to abate the sweat beading on my upper lip and sliding down the line of my spine. My breath slips from my lungs without replenishing my body.
Images flicker again. Max to Colton. Colton to Max. Blood tricking slowly from his ear. At the corners of his mouth. Flecking in specks across the shattered car. My name strangling on his lips. His pleas scarring my mind. Etching them like a brand marked to haunt me forever.
The sprinkling of unease turns into a downpour of panic. I need fresh air. I need a break from the oppression that is smothering this goddamn waiting room. I need color and vibrancy—something full of vigor and life like Colton—something other than the monochromatic colors and overwhelming memories.
I push myself up and all but run out of the waiting room ignoring Beckett’s call after me. I stagger blindly toward the exit because this time the whoosh of the doors calls to me, offers a respite from the hysteria siphoning my hope.
You make me feel, Rylee …
I stumble through the doors, the memory feathering through my soul but hitting me like a sucker punch to the abdomen. I gasp loudly, pain radiating through my every synapse. I draw in a ragged breath, needing something, anything to help recoup the faith I need to face the reality that Colton might not make it through the surgery. The night. The morning.
I shake my head to rid the poison eating my thoughts when I turn the corner of the building and am thrown into a maelstrom. I swear there are over a hundred cameras that flash all at once. The roar of questions thunders so loudly that I’m blasted by a tidal wave of noise. I’m surrounded immediately, my back pressed against the wall as microphones and cameras are shoved in my face documenting my slowly depleting grip on reality.
“Is it true they’re issuing Colton his last rites?”
Words trap in my throat.
“What is the status between you and Mr. Donavan?”
Anger intensifies but I’m overwhelmed by the deluge.
“Is it true that Colton’s on his death bed and his parents are at his side?”
My lips open and close, my fists clench, eyes burn, soul tears, and my faith in humanity crumbles. I know I look like a deer in the headlights, but I’m trapped. I know that if I thought I felt the claws of claustrophobia inside, I feel the cinch of my windpipe as the hands of the media squeeze the air from me. My breath comes in short sharp bouts. The blue sky spins above as my mind warps it into a lazy eddy, blackness starts to seep through as my conscious fades.
Just as I am about to sink into the welcoming oblivion, strong arms wrap around me and prevent my crash to the ground. My weight slams into Sammy’s like a freight train, and memories spear through my mind of the last time I fell into the arms of a man. Bittersweet images flicker of lost auction paddles and jammed closet doors. Vibrant green eyes and an arrogant, self-assured grin.