Page 12 of Love Wells Kept

His eyes meet mine, glistening in the soft room lighting. “You don’t need to thank me for doing the bare minimum. He’s my brother…. You’re my sister. Of course I’m going to be here, doing whatever you need.”

“Well, I’m still going to thank you for it.”

“God, I hope he’s okay,” Austin admits under his breath.

The pads of my fingers stroke the length of Jackson’s forearm. With light brown hair and freckles scattered across his skin, his arm appears deceivingly tan for this time of year. Golden and warm and full of life, just like he should be. Just like he has to be.

“He has to be okay, Aus. He has to.” My index finger takes a wide berth around an IV line, careful not to bump it, then circles a small scar on his bicep.

Austin, Jackson, and Denny suffered so much loss when they were younger, with the deaths of their grandpa and mom, immediately followed by their dad packing up and abandoning the ranch. Somehow, the three of them pulled together and didn’t merely keep Wells Ranch afloat; they worked their asses off to ensure that it became more successful than their grandpa had ever dreamed it would be, giving up everything for the sake of their family’s legacy. Austin and Denny can’t stand to lose Jackson any more than I can.

My touch runs up to his chest, and I lightly graze the old branding scar over his pec. Speaking of suffering for the ranch. It’s apparently been a long-standing tradition for the men to brand themselves with the Wells Ranch cattle brand—at eighteen, Jackson willingly placed a hot iron meant for thick cow hides on his chest. Now the scar’s off-white and barely raised, but the sentiment remains.

I’m so focused on studying the man lying in front of me, I don’t notice the doctor step into the room until she speaks. “You must be the family—I’m Doctor Perron.”

Startled, I defensively splay my hand wide and look over at her. Denny promptly hangs up the phone and gives her a charismatic smile. If there’s one thing you can count on the youngest Wells brother for, it’s bringing some light into even the most tense situations, and I’m well aware Austin and I have serious resting bitch faces at the best of times.

“I’m not sure how much you’ve been told already….” She waits for our collectively confused faces before continuing, “As you know, Jackson suffered some head trauma. That led to a subdural hematoma…blood under one of the layers of tissue that protect your brain”—she points to her head, in a spot that I imagine is roughly where Jackson was bleeding—“so we temporarily removed a portion of his skull….”

I hurriedly pull my hand from his chest, losing focus on the doctor’s voice as the room spins violently out of control. A portion of his skull was removed. My fingers cramp around the metal of my chair’s armrests. His skull. Black spots blur my vision and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator floods my brain. My husband had his skull cut out and he’s being kept alive by machines. Tears roll heavy and hot down my cheeks, and I pitch forward so my head’s buried between my knees to fight the urge to vomit again.

Somebody wake me up from this fucking nightmare.

Closed fist held tight to my mouth, and breathing heavily through my nose, I try to think about rainbows, or puppies, or donut farts. Sprinkle poops.

Jackson was so taken aback and genuinely hurt by the three-year-old’s utter disgust at his suggestion of sprinkle poops. I was a smug asshole, selfishly excited to not be the only uncool parent for once. And I’d take it back in an instant. I want him to be the cool parent. I want him to teach our kids how to drive a pickup truck, how to understand horses, and how to treat the people you love. They need him. They deserve to grow up with their daddy by their side.

And our baby…

My stomach clenches and twists. I can’t have this baby without him.

“He has kids,” I blurt out, looking up at the doctor though my vision’s so blurred she’s lacking all definition. “Is…is he going to be okay?”

Denny’s solid hand rests on my shoulder, massaging slowly.

“As I was saying, we were able to clear the hematoma quickly, and that’s typically a good sign, in terms of prognosis.”

“I need you to tell me he’s going to be okay.” It sounds vaguely threatening. I shake my head aggressively, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth to remove the excess saliva pooling in the corners and making my words thick. “Please.”

“Well…” She glances away from me and over to Austin, the pinnacle of calm and rational. “It’s too early to say, but we’ll have a better idea once we’re able to lighten up the coma and see what his level of function is.”

The furthest thing from any sort of reassurance.

My teeth locate a small snag in the skin on my bottom lip, and home in on it to keep from saying anything that might get me kicked out. For a moment, the pain of torn skin quiets the pain in my head.

Austin presumably asks some questions that I don’t hear past the harsh thump of my heartbeat in my eardrums. Denny’s hand falls away from my shoulder. And I spend an indeterminate amount of time watching my husband lie motionless in a hospital bed.

Every muscle in my body aches with the urge to reach for him, to crawl under the blankets next to him, position his arm around me, and pretend. Make believe we’re okay.

The last of the conversation leaves with the doctor. And though time hasn’t moved nor mattered since we got here, as far as I’m concerned, Austin must be paying attention. He’s the first to gently clap his hands together and speak.

“It’s getting late. We should eat…get some hotel rooms for the night.” He shuffles on his feet, his back brushing against the tiled wall like a bear scratching on a tree. “Get some fresh air.”

“You two go ahead,” I say without taking my eyes off Jackson.

Denny says, “Kate—”

“I’m not leaving here. I’m not leaving him.”