in the fall, and already it’s winter. How can that be, in only three days?” He swallowed hard. His life flashed before him, an endless collection of busy days and empty, empty nights. A calendar of weeks without her. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter.
Rosa came up beside him. “You must not give up hope, Dr. Liam. She will be one of the lucky ones who wake up.”
Liam had given his mother-in-law the gift of ignorance. He’d told her that a bad outcome was possible, but he’d made it sound improbable. Now he didn’t have the strength for subterfuge. Brain damage, paralysis, even a lifetime of coma; these were the possibilities. He knew that tomorrow morning he would be stronger, better able to hang on to his wobbling faith. That’s what the last few days had been—long stretches of hope punctuated by moments of severe, numbing fear.
He stood perfectly still, trying not to imagine how it would feel to wait for Mike to wake up, day after day, week after week. He drew in a deep, calming breath and exhaled slowly. “I won’t
ever
give up, Rosa. But I need … something to pin my faith on, and right now my colleagues aren’t giving me much to work with.”
“Faith in God will be your floor, Dr. Liam. Do not be afraid to stand on it.”
He held a hand up. “Not now, Rosa. Please …”
“If you cannot speak to God, then at least talk to Mikaela. She needs to be reminded she has a life out here. Now it is up to love to bring her back.”
Liam turned to Rosa. “What if my love doesn’t bring her back, Rosa?”
“It
will
.”
Liam envied Rosa’s simple faith. He searched deep inside himself for a matching certainty, but all he found was fear.
Rosa gazed up at him. “She needs you now … more than ever. She needs you to be the light that guides her home. This is all you should be thinking about now.”
“You’re right, Rosa.” Then, stronger, “You’re right.”
“And what you talk about is
importante, sí
? Talk to her about the things that matter.” She moved toward him. Her mouth was trembling as she said, “I have slept through my life, Dr. Liam. Do not let my daughter do the same thing.”
Bret made it past lunchtime without screaming, but now he could feel the temper tantrum coming on, building inside him. At first he’d just been crabby, then he’d ripped the head off his action figure and thrown the brand-new
People
magazine in the garbage.
He was tired of being in this waiting room, tired of being ignored.
No one seemed to care that Bret was always by himself in this grody, disgusting room.
Jacey’s
friends came at lunchtime—they had driver’s licenses—and itdidn’t bother her one bit to leave her little brother alone while she went to the cafeteria with “the gang.” Even Grandma and Daddy seemed to have forgotten all about him.
The only people who talked to Bret were the nurses, and whenever they looked at him, they had that
poor you
look in their eyes that made him want to puke.
Bret went to the sofa again and tried to interest himself in drawing, but he couldn’t do it. There was that sick feeling in his stomach and it was getting bigger and bigger. He was pretty sure that he was going to start screaming.
Instead, he picked up the nearest crayon—black—and went to the wall. He didn’t even bother looking around to see if he was alone. He didn’t care. In fact, he
wanted
someone to see him. In bold, sweeping letters, he wrote
I hate this hospital
across the bumpy wall. When he finished, he felt better. Then he turned around and saw Sarah, the head nurse, standing in the doorway, holding a bunch of comic books.
“Oh, Bret,” she said softly, giving him that
poor you
look.
He waited for her to say something else, maybe to come in and yell at him, but all she did was turn around and walk away. A few minutes later, he heard his dad’s name ringing out through the hospital paging system.
He dropped the crayon on the floor and went back to the sofa. Picking up the
Rosa came up beside him. “You must not give up hope, Dr. Liam. She will be one of the lucky ones who wake up.”
Liam had given his mother-in-law the gift of ignorance. He’d told her that a bad outcome was possible, but he’d made it sound improbable. Now he didn’t have the strength for subterfuge. Brain damage, paralysis, even a lifetime of coma; these were the possibilities. He knew that tomorrow morning he would be stronger, better able to hang on to his wobbling faith. That’s what the last few days had been—long stretches of hope punctuated by moments of severe, numbing fear.
He stood perfectly still, trying not to imagine how it would feel to wait for Mike to wake up, day after day, week after week. He drew in a deep, calming breath and exhaled slowly. “I won’t
ever
give up, Rosa. But I need … something to pin my faith on, and right now my colleagues aren’t giving me much to work with.”
“Faith in God will be your floor, Dr. Liam. Do not be afraid to stand on it.”
He held a hand up. “Not now, Rosa. Please …”
“If you cannot speak to God, then at least talk to Mikaela. She needs to be reminded she has a life out here. Now it is up to love to bring her back.”
Liam turned to Rosa. “What if my love doesn’t bring her back, Rosa?”
“It
will
.”
Liam envied Rosa’s simple faith. He searched deep inside himself for a matching certainty, but all he found was fear.
Rosa gazed up at him. “She needs you now … more than ever. She needs you to be the light that guides her home. This is all you should be thinking about now.”
“You’re right, Rosa.” Then, stronger, “You’re right.”
“And what you talk about is
importante, sí
? Talk to her about the things that matter.” She moved toward him. Her mouth was trembling as she said, “I have slept through my life, Dr. Liam. Do not let my daughter do the same thing.”
Bret made it past lunchtime without screaming, but now he could feel the temper tantrum coming on, building inside him. At first he’d just been crabby, then he’d ripped the head off his action figure and thrown the brand-new
People
magazine in the garbage.
He was tired of being in this waiting room, tired of being ignored.
No one seemed to care that Bret was always by himself in this grody, disgusting room.
Jacey’s
friends came at lunchtime—they had driver’s licenses—and itdidn’t bother her one bit to leave her little brother alone while she went to the cafeteria with “the gang.” Even Grandma and Daddy seemed to have forgotten all about him.
The only people who talked to Bret were the nurses, and whenever they looked at him, they had that
poor you
look in their eyes that made him want to puke.
Bret went to the sofa again and tried to interest himself in drawing, but he couldn’t do it. There was that sick feeling in his stomach and it was getting bigger and bigger. He was pretty sure that he was going to start screaming.
Instead, he picked up the nearest crayon—black—and went to the wall. He didn’t even bother looking around to see if he was alone. He didn’t care. In fact, he
wanted
someone to see him. In bold, sweeping letters, he wrote
I hate this hospital
across the bumpy wall. When he finished, he felt better. Then he turned around and saw Sarah, the head nurse, standing in the doorway, holding a bunch of comic books.
“Oh, Bret,” she said softly, giving him that
poor you
look.
He waited for her to say something else, maybe to come in and yell at him, but all she did was turn around and walk away. A few minutes later, he heard his dad’s name ringing out through the hospital paging system.
He dropped the crayon on the floor and went back to the sofa. Picking up the
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