Page 67 of Holding On

I have six broken ribs, and several more are bruised. Now, I sport a lot of colorful tape strategically placed across my chest and back. I was also heavily dosed with painkillers, which I swear left me unfazed. I was too focused to be zoned out. I wanted to be with Maya. All I could get from Finn and Nic was that she had a concussion and was admitted with moderate hypothermia.

All my sisters came and went. Claire brought me fresh clothes and a change for Maya as well—blue jeans and one of Claire’s striped sweaters. Chloe arrived with cold sandwiches, thick turkey ones with mayo and veggies, avocado, and some bacon. Devon and Luke came together, still in their fire gear.

Last are Laurel and Cory. They arrive after visiting hours, but the nurses look the other way, and Cory sits on my lap for a long time. He touches my neck and shoulders and then my hair, trying to see my back. I make sure his feet are well away from my side.

“Does it hurt?” Cory thrives on truth.

“Yes. But I’ll get better.”

He kisses me on the cheek and lays his head gingerly on my chest. His hot breath comes out fast and hard, and I realize he’s scared.

“Hey, bud, it’s fine. It just means we can’t play Andre for a little while.” I rub his back until he relaxes. “And see how late you get to stay up tonight?”

I glance up to Laurel to smile at her, but her eyes are wet.

“I can’t talk right now,” she says, waving a hand and moving Cory off me. “I have to go. Can you tell Maya that Geo is coming up to see her Wednesday when they release her?”

She kisses me as well, and I try to hold her arm. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” she says. “I love you. But we have to go.” Her face is all blotchy.

After they leave, I ask to be taken to Maya’s room. Sylvia, the nurse who waved Cory and Laurel in after-hours, wheels me down the hall to a private room that’s absolutely silent.

I sit in Maya’s room most of the night. Her white sheets almost glow in the gloom, reminding me of the white of the froth on shore. Monitors beep while she lies thin and long and barely breathing. I want to kiss her and stretch out next to her, but she looks so frail that I’m afraid to touch her.

***

Morning sunlight makes me squint. A nurse comes in—a man, not Sylvia—and pulls the shades to darken the room. After a brief hissing argument, I convince him he’d better let me stay here. He brings me a coffee and my pain meds, and I nod my thanks. I lean forward and then remember what the tape is supposed to hold still. Stopping myself is almost as painful.

Reaching forward more slowly, I hold her hand while she sleeps.

I know two things: I love her, and I need answers.

A little while later, she starts to move stiffly under the sheets. The back of her other hand comes up by her cheek, and she opens her eyes.

She squints and then closes her eyes again.

“You have a concussion,” I say.

“It’s so dark in here,” she mumbles, and then she licks her lips.

“I repeat, you have a concussion. No bright lights for you for a week.”

It takes her a few more minutes to wake up. She seems to fumble being conscious for so long that it starts to worry me, but then she finds herself. It’s as if everything winks into view for her.

Her eyes focus on me, and I smile and kiss her hand.

A moment later, her face crumples.

“What?” I say, pushing lines, machines, and a rolling table aside. “What?”

I hold her face in my hands, searching for those answers. She covers her eyes with her hands, and long deep sobs begin from her, unencumbered by ego or shame or guilt or fear.

I don’t know where this is coming from.

I don’t need answers. I don’t need to know anything. “You’re here. That’s all I need,” I say—I think out loud, but I’m not sure. I kiss her wet cheeks gently, afraid I’ll break her.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I say. “I love you, Maya. Shh, Shh.” I try to hold her. Then she pulls back, wipes her eyes, and I hand her a tissue.