“Have you been sitting more than normal?”
“A little. Trevor and I started a nonprofit clinic last year. The paperwork is overwhelming. So, I mean, compared to when I was doing my residency, yeah.”
“And is there a history of clotting in your family?”
“Yes,” my mom says abruptly. “His father.”
I’m glad my mother spoke up, because I don’t know if I could have said the words. This is how Dad died. He was a stubborn man who refused to acknowledge that he had pain in his leg for weeks. By the time he finally agreed to go see a doctor, it was too late.
“The good thing is that we caught it,” Jesse continues. “We had to do surgery, but everything went fine. We’ll have to monitor you, and you’ll be on blood thinners. You are fine, Garrett. You’re going to live. You are one of the lucky ones.”
Jesse types something into the tablet before putting it at his side. “Everything looks good. I’m going to let you process this all and I’ll check back on you in a few hours.”
He leaves, and for the first time in my life, my family is speechless. Which I’m glad for. My mind is running in a thousand directions and I don’t need comments from the peanut gallery right now.
“You guys don’t have to stay here,” I say.
My mom shakes her head, giving my hand another squeeze. “Nonsense. You need family around you at times like these. Until you are up and moving, I’ll be right here.”
“I will too,” Mark adds. “Charlie has the kids and I have time off work. We’re here for you, brother.”
I shake my head, trying to sit up a bit more in my hospital bed. Though, that doesn’t go well. “Guys. I’m fine. I’ll likely be sleeping a lot. Plus, I’m sure Annika will be by shortly to relieve you both.”
My mom and Mark exchange a look, and before either of them say anything, I already know what’s coming.
“She… well… she hasn’t been here,” my mom says, trying to break the news to me gently. “We called her, but she didn’t sound… well, she sounded like she didn’t care. I assumed I just caught her at a bad time.”
I can tell my mom wanted to say more, and I don’t need her to. I know Annika hasn’t been here. Why would she? We barely care about each other when we are healthy.
So much for those in sickness and in health vows.
“It’s fine, Mom. I’m sure she’s just busy.” Mark gives me a look like he’s calling me on my bullshit, but I ignore him. “You guys though… go. I’m fine for tonight. Come back tomorrow if you want. Tonight, I just want to process all this and get some sleep.”
The two share a look before resigning themselves to my request.
“Call us if you need anything,” Mark says.
“I will. And thank you. Thank you both.”
My mom leans down and places a kiss on my forehead, much like she did when I was sick as a kid.
“Absolutely. We are family. This is what we do.”
As they both leave my room, I think about those words and the ones Jesse gave me earlier. I could have died this week. My life could have been over. Instead of my mother placing a kiss on my forehead, she could have been crying over my casket. Mark could have been holding Makenna as they said goodbye to me, confusion written over her sweet face about why Uncle Garrett couldn’t come over and play anymore.
My wife would have likely skipped the funeral and went straight to the bank to get her diamond-clad fingers on all of the money.
All of those thoughts play on an endless loop through my head that night, making it nearly impossible to sleep.
You’re one of the lucky ones.
Out of all the events of the day, Jesse’s words are the ones that stick with me the most. And though I know I am, I just can’t help but wonder one thing.
Why me? Why am I the lucky one? Because I’ve done nothing in this life to deserve a second chance.
Chapter Nine
Paige
Holidays around a hospital are a funny thing. When a visitor walks into the lobby, they are immediately greeted with a dazzling assortment of lights, decorations, and a Christmas tree that could be featured on an HGTV holiday special.
But once you get past the lobby, the Christmas cheer you were greeted with slowly melts away like snow in the spring. Yes, the patient floors are decorated with small trees and a few appropriately placed miniature Santa Claus figurines. Yes, everyone is trying to put on a brave face in an attempt to keep spirits up. The reality is, you’re in a hospital on Christmas.
And there’s only one way to put it—it flipping sucks.
If I let myself, I could mentally go down the road that my life is much like this hospital right now. All bright and cheery on the outside, but inside is something not as grand or great. It’s like the best-wrapped Christmas gift under the tree, excitement pouring out of you as you rip off the wrapping paper, only to find a toothbrush.
Luckily, the phone rings at the front desk, which stops all thought of going down that depressing path. It’s one I’ve gone down too many times in my life. One I want to avoid if at all possible.
I always pick up more volunteer hours at the hospital around Christmas. Being on break from school allows me to spend more time here and it allows the other volunteers to spend time with their families. I don’t have a family to spend the holidays with, not one I like to claim anyway, so this allows me to spread Christmas cheer to people who deserve it.
“Do you ever leave here? I swear, this is where I left you yesterday,” says Millie, a lovely older woman who has been volunteering at this hospital longer than I’ve been alive. I look up to see her gray hair coming around the welcome desk, but that’s all I can see as the poinsettia she’s carrying is nearly as big as her head.
“Well, I could say the same thing about you. And who is the poinsettia for?”
“My dear, when you get to be my age, you can call the kettle black if you damn well want to. You’ve earned the right. And I haven’t looked at the card yet. I took it from the nice delivery man outside.”
“You know it’s his job to deliver it to the patient, right?”
She sets down the plant, which now I can tell is fake, before batting my comment away with a flick of her hand. “Well, yes. But that meant I didn’t get to watch him walk away and climb into his truck in those delivery pants. You know how I get around delivery men.”
I laugh at her words, though they don’t surprise me. Millie is spunky for eighty-five years old. She can still drive, tells me her secret to a long life is a glass of whiskey every night, and she’s a shameless flirt with the male nurses. And delivery men. And doctors. But like me, I have a feeling her outside facade is hiding something deeper.
She lost her husband twenty years ago. They never had children, and from the bits and pieces she has told me, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Sometimes when he comes up in conversation, I see the sadness that is still there in her eyes, even twenty years later.
Then she puts on a brave face and makes that sadness seem like a fluke.
I might not have lost a great love, but I know what being alone is like. And I see it more times in Millie’s eyes than she would probably like.