I stand in front of him, and I can’t speak. Words fail me as I see him start to break. My chest grows tight and my limbs become ice cold. I have to say something, I know I do, but there’s nothing to say to help him. Bryce shakes his head as tears start to form, and he looks to me to stop them, but I can’t. He knows, and instead of me saying the words, I just freeze.
“Mr. Peyton,” Westin starts. “There was a complication during the surgery . . .”
“No, no, no,” Bryce chants and then sinks to the ground. “Please, no.”
The look in his eyes tears me in two. He’s desperate for me to refute the words Westin spoke.
“Every effort was made,” Westin says, but Bryce’s cry stops him.
“No! Not her! God, no.”
The agony in his voice breaks me in two. “Her heart,” I croak. “I was able to stop the bleed, but as we were finishing,” my voice is filled with remorse, and I pray he hears it. “When we . . . she suffered what we believe was a heart attack. I’m so sorry.”
“No,” he says again. “Ren, tell me this isn’t true. Please. Please tell me she’s okay.”
I squat, wishing more than anything it was a lie. My lip trembles and I hold onto the very last shred of strength I have, knowing that if I break down, I won’t get back up. “I wish I could. I’m sorry. I tried everything. I wouldn’t give up, but I couldn’t bring her back. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Mr. Peyton.” Westin crouches down and helps him into the chair. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
We both flank him in the chairs as he starts to cry.
“Is there anyone we can call?” Westin asks.
He shakes his head, wipes his nose, and gets to his feet. “No, I think you’ve done enough.”
Both Wes and I stand as Bryce marches out the door without another word.
I’ve broken him.
Westin places his hand on my back and guides me back to the locker room. I sit on the bench, staring at the floor, wondering how my day went so out of control. Another part of me worries what will happen now.
The idea of my career being over was sort of a possibility, but now it’s not so abstract. There will be an autopsy, I’ll go before the board, and there’s the possibility of a lawsuit.
Fuck.
I’m completely screwed. If they look into this, they’ll find the switch. How could I be so stupid?
Another tear falls and I turn my head to hide it.
“You should go get cleaned up and go home,” Westin says after a few seconds pass.
“No,” I refute.
“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you to go home, don’t talk to anyone, and I’ll be there when I can.”
I look up at Westin and there’s an edge to his words that cause a shiver to run up my spine. “Wes?”
“Listen to me on this,” he says as he sits beside me. “You’re a mess and you can’t see patients, but you also need to get your head straight before you talk to anyone, understand?”
Always protecting me.
“I need to follow protocol,” I sigh.
“No, you need to do as I say.” Westin touches my knee.
I glance at him through wet eyelashes. “How do I get through this?”
He pulls me into his arms, kisses the top of my head, and squeezes. “With time, you’ll see that you didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes people die and sometimes we can prevent it, but you tried. I’ll come to your place later, okay? I need to check in on another patient before I can leave.”
It feels like I’m crying, but there are no tears, just shame. I can sit here and let people see me fall apart or I can go home and hate myself there. I need to listen to Westin. When his trial went to hell, it was the whispers of the staff that were the worst. People gossiping about the doctor who’d lost his mind. I don’t need that. He’s right to force me to leave.
“Okay,” I finally agree.
Westin helps me get ready like a father dressing a child. He holds my coat out, pushing my arms through the holes, and then zips it closed.
His lips part as though he’s going to say something, but whatever he sees in my eyes stops him.
He holds my hand as we walk through the halls toward the hospital entrance. Just a few hours ago, I stood in this same spot, ready to be epic. I wasn’t epic, though. Unless you count epic failure.
“I’ll see you soon?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he kisses my lips and then walks away.
The warmth I was feeling is gone and dread fills me. Does he think I’m a failure too? Or worse?
I walk the few blocks to my house, open the door, and sink to the floor. My head rests on the cool wood floors and I cry. I cry for all the hell I’ve endured and caused the last few weeks. I let my sobs out and fall apart, because what else can I do?
A loud bang on the door startles me awake. Disoriented, I push myself up. I look around, trying to see what time it is.
The knock comes again and I get to my feet, hoping it’s Westin.
When I open it, I stumble back.
“Bryce?”
He looks as bad as I probably do. His eyes are red rimmed, hair disheveled, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he confesses.
“How did you find me?”
His eyes are haunted. “I followed you one day, I wanted to talk, and then I thought better of it. I didn’t want to cross that line and make Allison think . . . but . . . I guess that doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m alone. Where do I go, Chick? What do I do now?”
My stomach drops and I don’t know the right thing to do. Should I offer him comfort or send him away? Then I remember I killed his wife, and the least I can do is listen to him.
“Do you want to come in?”
He nods.
We walk into my living room and he sits on the couch, head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do now. I don’t understand.”
I move in front of him, and sit on the coffee table. “I don’t know what to tell you. There’s nothing I can say to make this better.”
His head jerks up. “I lost her. She was taken from me.”
The accusation in his voice is louder than the words spoken. He means to say, you took her from me.
“She was,” I agree.
“You don’t know what we were like. You don’t know how perfect she is . . . was. Fuck, she was. She’s isn’t anything anymore. I need to know what happened in there.”
I close my eyes in sadness. “It doesn’t matter.”
He gets to his feet. “I need answers, Ren. You’re the only one that has them.”
Apologizing isn’t going to bring her back, and I remember when my mother died, I wanted to punch everyone who said it. Things like ‘they’re in a better place,’ or ‘at least she’s not suffering anymore’ don’t make the person in agonizing grief feel any solace in their loss. Those words only comfort the speaker, and I won’t do that to him.
The best thing I can do is let him know something real about her final moments.
“You should sit down,” I tell him and he listens.
We sit here, and I recount the surgery in a clinical way. As each moment, decision, and adjustment I made come back to me. I relay them, hoping he’ll see how hard I tried. He listens with tears streaming down his face when I get to the part where her heart rate dropped. I work hard to keep myself together and just give him the facts.