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—Simone—
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It all came rushing back: the smells, sounds, the administration of medicines, the hustle and bustle of nurses and doctors coming in and out of my room like it was a subway station. Just like when I lost Reagan.
I gripped the edges of the firm narrow stretcher, unable to will my body to relax. It remained locked rigid and terrified and tears slid down my face as the CT scanner clicked and whirred around me.
Reagan’s final hours passed all too quickly and left a blur I’d never forget. I’d lain by his side, tucked against him in his hospital bed, praying for a last-minute miracle.
It hadn’t come. I wouldn’t be here if it did. All the silent begging and promising to be a better person to spare Reagan’s life had been in vain.
His parents overrode my decision to keep him on life support. At the time, it seemed like they were doing it to spite me, to cut our time short, but as I moved through the grieving process, I began to understand it was in Reagan’s best interest to let him go.
Those final minutes had torn my beating heart right out of my chest. The care staff couldn’t tell us how long he would survive without the ventilator—anywhere from minutes to hours, they’d advised. I’d hoped for hours but was given mere minutes to say my final goodbyes, sobbing into Reagan’s shirt as his mother and father stood on the other side of his bed, clutching one another through their sorrow. I’d never felt more alone than I did the moment Reagan passed.
Once confirmed deceased, I’d expected a lull where the doctors and nurses would leave us to have a little more time with his body. Instead, Reagan was whisked away without explanation. Literally rushed from the room with hospital staff rushing after the wheeled bed.
From that precise blip in time, his parents—his mother in particular—had made my life a living hell.
It was that deep, after-death depression that had me first reaching for a knife and discovering that physical pain helped momentarily shift the heartbreak.
A sob tore from my chest, promptly followed by a soothing yet stern voice in my headphones. “Stay still, Simone. We’re almost done, you’re doing great.”
I held my breath, willing the torment to ease and the haunting memories to fade. Instead of escaping my clamped lips, they rippled throughout my chest. No matter how hard I squeezed my eyes closed, tears still managed to penetrate and fall.
Finally, mercifully, the stretcher I was strapped to began its slow withdrawal from the CT machine. I was greeted by the woman with a friendly smile who’d sent me into the claustrophobic hole.
“All done now, Simone. You’ll be returned to your room and a doctor will be in later with the results.”
I thanked her, then squeezed my eyes closed when the staff transferred me back to my awaiting hospital bed. From there, an orderly took to me to a new private room.
A woman stood as soon as I was wheeled in, feet first.
“Simone?” she asked.
“Yes?”
Her expression fell with relief. “Oh, hon, I came here as fast as I could.”
My eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Who are you?”
After my bed had been positioned and the brakes clicked on, she took my hand and smiled down at me. “I’m Banks’s mom, Laurel. He called and asked me to keep you company. If that’s okay with you?”
“It’s late...”
“It is,” she agreed, caring blue eyes boring into mine with warmth and natural affection. She pulled up a chair and got comfortable at my bedside. “But that’s no biggie for me. I’m used to being here all hours of the day and night.”
I squinted as I tried to make sense of it all.
“I work here,” she explained. “Not on this floor, but I’m a nurse here at St. Catherine's. Hence why I’m allowed in after midnight.” Laurel winked.
I smiled despite the tiredness weighing down my eyelids.
Banks’s mom’s voice came soft. “Don’t fight the sleep, your body needs it. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
My heart began to race for no apparent reason. Tears gathered and spilled over. “I can’t be in here. I need to go home.”
Laurel took my hand again and turned it palm-side up. “You need to be right here, hon. I hope you don’t mind, but Banks filled me in on your history—just the parts I needed to know. Returning to the place of trauma can be extremely frightening. I’m here to help you through if you’ll let me,” she added softly.
I exhaled a shaky breath. “My parents...”
“Have been informed. I’ve updated them as much as I could, and will do so again once your scan results come in. They’re on standby to fly up.”
My bottom lip trembled as it turned into a deep downward arch. “They can’t afford to.”
Laurel rubbed circles on my palm. “You’d be amazed at what a parent would do for their child, but that’s why I’ll keep them updated as much as possible. We’ll all reassess in the morning. For now, you need some rest.”
Her blue gaze seared into mine, and I found myself blinking. “Okay.” I then shifted my focus to the spot she pressed on, where the outer side of my palm met my wrist.
“Acupressure for anxiety,” she explained. “It’ll help you relax.”
“Thank you, Banks’s mom,” I murmured and closed my eyes.
Her quiet laugh sounded. “It’s Laurel. And you’re welcome, darlin’.”
My heart swelled. As if I didn’t like Banks enough already, I loved him a whole lot more knowing his mom wasn’t a bitch like Reagan’s was.
