Time does not slow for tragedy. It's something I know intimately, how quickly a life can be extinguished. A blink of an eye. A single breath. A split second. There one moment and gone the next.
I'm helpless to stop it as I watch Abel's car collide with Ivy's body from behind. The impact is a blur, a fraction of a moment when she is propelled into the air and then onto the pavement, rolling to a stop with such finality, it feels like I'm dying too.
Nothing can prepare you for such an event. No amount of adrenaline in the world can force your body to cooperate as the shock of what you're witnessing threatens to freeze you.
My car comes to a stop. I struggle to release my seat belt, howling in frustration as my eyes connect with Abel's for one split second. He doesn’t look at his sister as he directs the car forward without slowing. He only has eyes for me. A sneer on his face, as if to say he won.
I force myself to follow a series of simple commands, even as every muscle in my body goes rigid. One is to take a deep breath. Two is to pull the brake. Finally, I manage to untangle my seat belt, flinging open the door just as Abel veers around me and speeds off toward the exit.
I glance at his taillights and then back at Ivy. As soon as I saw Ivy’s phone location on the GPS, I didn’t think. I just took off, Marco and the rest of the guards scrambling to catch up with me. They were following me as I wove through traffic, but they are still a few seconds behind. It's just me, standing between my past and my future. My chance to kill Abel or save my wife. It's not even a choice.
I tear my gaze away from the squealing tires as Abel turns the corner and disappears from sight. I'm running. Lungs burning. Heart pounding. Fists clenching. When I reach her, the sight drops me to my knees.
Her head is lolled to the side, blood-streaked across her face.
"Ivy." My voice is barely a whisper when I reach out to touch her, hesitant. "Wake up, angel. Please wake up."
I'm not supposed to move her, but it's the only thing I want to do. I want to cradle her in my arms and tell her it's going to be okay. I will find a way to save her. Instead, I reach for her hand, only to realize her arm and several of her fingers have been broken. They are already starting to swell, bruises forming along the skin. Her dress is torn down the side, scrapes and gashes marring her legs and her arms. She's bleeding from her lip and possibly somewhere else. I can't tell.
I'm trying to drag my phone from my pocket when I hear Marco's voice, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. "I already called, boss. They’re on their way."
I look up at him, a desperation I've never known altering my voice beyond all comprehension. "What do we do?"
He swallows, eyes glassy. "I... think you need to check her pulse."
My chest heaves, emotion threatening to break free as I stroke my wife's face. Marco watches on as I move my trembling fingers to her throat, trying to feel for a pulse. It's the most terrifying moment of my life, and I'm shaking too badly to feel anything. I dig deeper, pressing my fingers into her skin, begging for something. Anything.
"Help me," I plead. “Marco…”
An ambulance turns the corner. Marco did right. He called for the Society's medical team. Ivy will have a fighting chance. I have to believe that.
"Excuse us, Mr. De La Rosa." Someone taps me on the shoulder as paramedics begin attending to her, rattling off information as they try to move her onto a stretcher.
I can't seem to let go of her arm. The edges of my eyes are darkening, my vision narrowing to a pinpoint as my breathing becomes too shallow to draw air.
"Santiago." Marco pries my hand from her, and instinctively, I take a swing at him as I stagger to my feet.
He grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me, and when I try to fight him off, he backhands me across the face, shocking me back to reality.
"Pull yourself together, Santiago," he growls. "Do it for your wife."
My nostrils flare as a long, painful sound leaves my lungs. He's right. I know he's right. But I don't know how to pull myself together when the only thing that matters is falling apart. I watch them load her into the back of the ambulance, and Marco ushers me forward.
"You can ride with her, sir."
I glance back at him before the doors shut, and he gives me one last encouraging nod. "I’ll meet you there.”
The next ten hours are a blur as I'm left to hold my breath in the hospital waiting room. I alternate between pacing the floor and collapsing into a chair to hang my head in my hands, swinging between violent despair and brief glimpses of hope.
Doctors and nurses come and go, providing updates with little information. They did imaging tests on Ivy as soon as she arrived, confirming the baby is okay, but from what they can tell so far, she has three broken ribs, a fractured arm, a ruptured tendon in her leg, and numerous scrapes and bruises. The impact was to her face and the side of her head, but they told me she was responsive to stimuli before they took her back to surgery for the ruptured tendon. I wanted to see her, but the surgery had to be performed immediately to prevent further damage.
Marco told me that was a good sign, and the nurses have continued to assure me they are doing everything they can. But hours have come and gone, and something doesn't feel right. I know it, deep in my gut.
"I have to go back there," I tell Marco.
"You can't." He stands up and forces me back into the chair.
I'm too exhausted to fight him off, and I know it isn't logical. They told me as soon as she was in recovery, they would come for me. But I can't deny this desperate sinking inside me. It's an instinct that only intensifies with time, and after another hour passes, I can no longer deny it.
"It's been hours," I croak. "They said she'd be out of surgery by now."
"It takes time for the anesthesia to wear off," he answers. "Look at the screen, boss."
He points at the monitor in the waiting room with Ivy's number on it. The one that tells me she's still in surgery. It hasn't been updated for six hours, I realize, and I know that can’t be accurate.
When I stagger to my feet again, Marco sighs, and this time he seems to understand he's not stopping me. I head for the desk, where a terrified nurse blinks up at me as soon as she sees me.
"Mr. De La Rosa," she squeaks.
"I want to speak to a doctor. Now.”
She swallows, nods, and scurries off. Five minutes pass, and then ten before a weary-looking doctor appears. It's the same man I spoke to earlier. One of the best surgeons IVI has on staff. He was called in specifically for my wife's case today. I was assured she was in good hands with Dr. Singh. But one glance at his face tells me I was wrong.
"What happened?" I force the words between gritted teeth. "I want to see my wife. Now. Where is she? Where the hell is she?"
"Mr. De La Rosa." His eyes bounce between Marco and me. "I'm afraid there's been a complication."
"Complication?" The word falls from my lips in an unrecognizable voice.
"Your wife seems to be experiencing a prolonged delay of consciousness following surgery."
"She's not waking up?" My eyes move down the hall behind him to the closed doors they wheeled Ivy through. "But... she's okay? You said she was responsive earlier. You told me—"
"This can be a rare complication of anesthesia," he tells me. “There are cases when this happens without much of an explanation...”
His voice begins to fade as he rattles off rehearsed lines about post-op recovery times, organic and metabolic causes of delayed consciousness, non-traumatic causes for comatose patients. The words all start to blend, and I can't follow any of them. It’s too much to process, and there’s only one thing I know for certain.
"Take me to her," I order. "I need to see her. I’m going now, with or without you."
He hesitates and then offers a solemn nod.