Page 7 of The Lies We Play

I look past her. “Where is he?”

The doctor glances toward the door.

My father steps into the room, and I know, somehow, that he has been waiting to manage this. To manage me. He looks exhausted, older than he should, his shirt wrinkled, eyes red, mouth set with purpose.

Purpose scares me more than grief.

“She’s going to do it again,” Mom chokes on a sob.

“Livia,” Dad says, “you need to stay calm.”

I almost laugh.

Of all the impossible instructions he has ever given me, and there have been many, “stay calm” while my husbands are missing is a truly elite-level delusion.

“Listen, you were in an accident,” Dad begins to explain. “There was significant trauma.”

Significant.

Trauma.

Two clean words pretending they have not dragged blood into the room.

“Is he alive?”

No one answers fast enough.

The machine keeps beeping. My hand keeps moving against my will. Somewhere outside the room, a phone rings until someone finally silences it.

“Is he . . . is he alive?” I say again, louder, though the words scrape all the way out.

“He’s in critical condition,” Dad responds. “They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

Critical.

Condition.

My body understands before my mind does.

The beeping changes.

A nurse moves toward me. Someone says my name. My mother starts crying, saying I’m losing it again. My father orders someone to do something, because that is what he does when helplessness comes upon him—he turns it into a command and hopes no one notices the terror beneath.

“Creed,” I gasp. “Where is Creed?”

“Livia—”

“No. Where is he?” I beg. “You need to call him.”

The room tilts.

Or I do.

The beeping goes faster. Too fast. A terrible little metronome for a life I can’t reach.

“Call him,” I insist. “Call Creed. He’ll know. He always—he’ll⁠—”

“Her pressure’s climbing.”