Some things might have gone wrong on that day, but you weren’t one of them.
A heated ball glowed in the vicinity of her heart.
Glancing up, she discovered Dylan watching her smugly. “Is that from Dr. Grant?”
“Yes.”
“The guy you don’t have a crush on?”
“Correct.” She shut herself into the bathroom and tried on the necklace. The chain fell to just the right length.
She dialed Sebastian’s number.
Her call went to voice mail.
He was no doubt busy rescuing a sick child from the jaws of death.
Sebastian was going to have to take Isabella Ackerman off the heart transplant list.
Her parents, Megan and Timothy, waited nearby while he finished his examination. Megan looked like a thinner, harder version of the woman he’d first met. Timothy was as stocky and bearded as before. But his posture had started to stoop. Their expressions pleaded with Sebastian to say that he could make their daughter well.
He hated this part of his job. “Isabella has developed sepsis,” he informed them. Last week, one of his colleague’s patients had become septic and died within twenty-four hours.
Megan anxiously tucked her hair behind her ears. “How are you going to treat it?”
“Antibiotics. Additional medications for her blood pressure and cardiac function. Increased ventilation.”
“How long do you think it will take until she’s better?” Timothy asked.
“I don’t know.” There was no guarantee of “better” for Isabella. Her small body might have endured all it could take, in which case this would be the final blow. If she did recover, “better” for her would mean she’d still be so sick that she’d need this Pediatric Intensive Care Unit to keep her alive.
“Here’s what I can tell you for sure,” Sebastian said. “Those of us on staff are committed to doing everything we can to help her.” It made him furious that the best care and the best science couldn’t save them all.
“Can she remain on the transplant list?” Megan asked.
“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to remove her from the list. For now.”
Their faces fell. They knew that removing Isabella from the list meant removing her shot at survival.
“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said.
Weighted silence answered.
Isabella fidgeted.
Megan pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead, then took hold of her daughter’s hand. “I’m worried she’s uncomfortable.”
“She’s comfortable,” Sebastian said. “We wouldn’t allow her to be otherwise.” Not many years ago, children like Isabella had simply been protected from pain with palliative care until they died, a few days after their birth, in their parents’ arms.
Treatments had come a long way in a short time, and now parents almost always chose to intervene surgically. Even when the odds weren’t in their favor, they were willing to try a Hail Mary pass to give their child a chance at life.
“Several of our family members are coming by to visit her later today,” Megan said. “Do you hear that, sweetheart? A whole group of people who love you are on their way. They’ve met you, but they can’t wait for you to meet them.”
He saw it all the time—large interconnected families, hanging on every breath of their newest, youngest, sickest member. They crowded into waiting rooms during surgery. Filled sections of the cafeteria and lobby. They often brought balloons, stuffed animals, cookies.
Those big families always threw his own situation—the fact that he had no one but the Colemans—into perspective.
“Everyone at our church has been praying for Isabella,” Timothy said to Sebastian. “Her story has spread to other churches in Augusta, and we’ve heard that they’re all praying, too.”
“We’ll let them know about the sepsis,” Megan said, her voice cracking. “And they’ll double down on their conversations with God.”
“You’ll put her back on the transplant list as soon as the sepsis is gone, right?” Timothy asked.
“When the sepsis is gone, we’ll reevaluate.” Sebastian excused himself and turned toward the break room.
He never made promises to family members that he couldn’t keep, because his mother had once assured him that she’d recover. He didn’t know if she’d believed that when she’d said it or not. Either way, she’d lied.
She’d died on a Tuesday, while he was at school.
The hospice staff had believed that she had several days left, and his mom had wanted him to continue his routine. So he’d gone to school even though he’d hated school and been nauseous with worry every morning when the old lady neighbor they were staying with walked him to the bus stop wearing her house shoes.
On that Tuesday when he’d returned home from school, he’d knocked on the door of the old lady’s apartment.
A young female voice had called, “Come in.”
He entered and watched two women raise their faces toward him sadly. The old lady was there, but so was the young one with curly brown hair who’d been coming around. They called her his social worker, except he wasn’t really sure what that meant.
His vision jerked to his mom, in her hospital bed. Smooth blankets covered her to her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and she was too still. Too white.
Terror tightened his stomach.
“Sebastian,” the old lady said, “your mother passed away while napping a few hours ago.”
He couldn’t move or speak.
Your mother passed away.
No.
Your mother passed away.
No!
“I’m so sorry,” the social worker said.
“It was peaceful,” the old lady told him.
His lungs weren’t working, and a terrible buzzing noise filled his head.
“We didn’t know if you’d want to see her before she goes,” the social worker said, “but we wanted to give you that option. It’s totally up to you.”
His mom had died? And he hadn’t been there?
He was going to be sick all over his shoes.
“I want you to know that you’ll be safe and cared for,” the social worker said. “There’s a plan in place. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you to a family who lives near here. They have a room ready for you, and they’re very kind people.”
He hated the social worker with the curly brown hair. He’d never be safe, and he’d never be cared for, and he’d never be ready to leave this apartment. This is where his mom was.
His mom. She was his family.
These ladies were strangers.
He’d remained silent the rest of that awful day. They’d let him sit at his mom’s bedside for a long time. He’d stared at her because he’d been too scared to hold a dead person’s hand.
Sebastian forced his thoughts back to the present. In the break room, he downed trail mix and poured himself a mug of coffee. Then he took the mug with him up to the second highest floor of the building.
Occasionally, he needed fresh air to clear his head. It didn’t matter the season. The steamy heat of summer, the freezing wind of winter. He’d investigated every hospital he’d worked at until he’d found at least one space that could offer him quiet and privacy outdoors.