Page 58 of Don’t Look Back

At the door, I let my hand fall from Marisol’s grip. She advanced into the room, murmuring quietly in Spanish, but my feet were rooted to the spot.

We entered at the foot of the bed. The ventilator pumped in time with my own breaths. The blanket they’d covered Ryan with looked scratchy and uncomfortable, and the gown they had him in was way too big. His eyes were shut, swollen and purple. A bandage wrapped around his head, his gorgeous dark hair splaying over the pillow. The tube down his throat sent me over the edge. My mouth watered, bile rising in my throat. “Um…”

“That way,” Charlie intercepted, spinning me in the direction of the bathroom.

Barely making it through the door, I vomited into the trash can, acid burning my nose and throat. Charlie barged her way in behind me, not seeming to care about the sign outside.

“How could someone do that to him?” I cried, gagging long after my stomach was empty.

I heard Charlie take a deep breath behind me. She didn’t answer my question. “We should find you somewhere to sit down.”

“I’m fine,” I sputtered. “Will you go check on Marisol? She shouldn’t be alone.”

“Neither should you.”

“Charlie…” I warned. I was still white-knuckling the edges of the trash can. I’d never be able to get that image of Ryan out of my head. I’d be seeing it in my nightmares for years to come.

And if Charlie didn’t leave right that second, she might bear witness to me murdering her brother.

“Fine.” But before she left, she slammed the bottle of water against my chest. “But drink that. You won’t be of any help to anyone if you end up in a bed yourself.”

Finally, I was left alone in the small men’s room. Only once I was certain I was finished being sick, I slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Resting against the cool tile, I finally cracked the seal on the water bottle and slowly sipped at it.

Once I was able to get to my feet, it took everything I had to force each step toward Ryan’s room. Everything was the same, from the sounds echoing off the pristine white walls to the squeak of my shoes against the linoleum floors.

My mom’s memory was a constant presence, but I tried my best to forget about what those final days in the hospital felt like. Neither me or Dad saw our own bed for weeks, and the constant gnaw of hunger in my stomach was a feeling I’d rather forget—it hurt too much to eat most hospital food, and I didn’t have the energy to scour for my every meal. Dad had wanted Mom home, but she’d refused, said she didn’t want us to remember her that way. Walking down those halls, I was grateful for that. I didn’t think I could handle feeling my heart ripped to shreds in my own house.

I hadn’t realized that I’d made it back to Ryan’s room until Marisol came into view. She sat in a plastic chair next to the bed with Charlie behind her. Seeing me hovering, Charlie pushed off the wall and crossed the room to me. “You thinking about your mom?” she whispered.

I could only nod. It wasn’t something that I talked about very much.

“He’s not her, Gene,” she assured me. “He’s going to be okay.”

Silently, I worked up the courage to advance into the room. With Marisol on his right, I went around to Ryan’s left. I made no move to stop the tears running down my cheeks.

Marisol startled me when she spoke. “The nurse said they’ll start weaning him off the sedation soon. She said it’s working. His brain is healing.”

She held her son’s hand, but I kept mine in my pockets. I desperately wanted to feel Ryan’s warm skin beneath my fingertips, to truly know he was alive, but my hands just wouldn’t move.

Like a mom, Marisol picked up on it. “Come here,” she encouraged, standing from her chair.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” I choked. “He’s your son.”

“And he’s your boyfriend. I know you care for him just as much as I do.”

Reluctantly, I took her spot, letting her place Ryan’s hand in mine. When he didn’t react, I only cried harder. A loud, unexpected sob bubbled up, and I squeezed Ryan’s hand tight—tighter than I probably should have.

Please squeeze back… please.

“I hoped for the same thing,” Marisol said, a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“No, but a mother always knows.”

“H-he told you about mine, didn’t he?”

“He did. Is this the same hospital?”