My chin dipped to my chest. A shuddering breath pushed its way past my lips, and I closed my eyes, giving up after only a few minutes. Still rubbing my fingers against her smooth skin, I waited. For her to wake. For them to wake her. For someone to step inside the room, and tell me my time was up. For something, anything, that might end this never-ending moment breaking me into pieces. The longer I stood there, the more pain I felt. It radiated off my sister, and buried inside my chest, circling my heart and tormenting me. Seconds turned into minutes. No one bothered me. No one came in to check her vitals. Nothing changed, except me. I felt myself become fragile, brittle, and utterly broken as I stared at her.
After what felt like hours later, the door to Emma’s room opened, allowing noise from in the hall to seep in. Irritation burned through me. My sister deserved quiet. She didn’t need the outside noise distracting her from what she was trying to do, from how she was making her way back to me. I shifted to see who had entered the room, ready to shoot daggers at them with my eyes for interrupting, until I realized it was Dawson.
The sight of him muted my irritation. His eyes were wide with the same fear I had felt clogging my system when I saw her for the first time. He was taking in the machines, the bruises, and the swelling. His hatred for all that had happened to my beautiful sister crossed his face. He understood this pain, my pain. How horrifying it was to see her lying in the bed within your reach, but unable to be fixed. He knew what it was like to look at her, and think about how she resembled a stranger. She was unrecognizable from the bandages, bruising, and swelling of her face.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” he whispered as though he didn’t want to wake her.
“You’re not.” My voice was as low as his, because I felt the same. Even though I knew we wouldn’t cause her to wake from her slumber, I still whispered. It seemed disrespectful to talk in a normal voice around her.
“Okay.” He closed the door behind him. His unease radiated from him. I understood it, but hated how much it intensified my own. I needed to be strong, but couldn’t be if I was suffocated by someone else’s worry for Emma as well as my own.
“I think I’m going to get a coffee. Want one?” I patted Emma’s arm, and moved to let Dawson have access to her bedside.
A breath escaped his lips, and I knew it was from him taking in the full view of her. I lifted my gaze to look at him, really look at him. He was chewing along the side of his bottom lip, something I had always known him to do whenever he was nervous or scared. I used to think it was the cutest thing, but now there was nothing cute about it. It was heartbreaking.
“She looks like she’s in so much pain.” His words rolled through the air in the room, slamming into me. “Oh my God.” He doubled over. I knew it was from the pain of seeing her this way, because I’d felt it too. I still did. Tears slipped from my eyes, because I knew exactly what he was feeling.
“I know.” My words were simple. My voice constricted. I couldn’t offer him much more than that. I would break in half if I did.
“They told me she wouldn’t feel anything while she was still under.” He pulled in a shaky breath, gathering himself. “How could they know for sure? It looks like it hurts her to breathe.”
“If you look beyond everything and search her face, she looks peaceful. You can’t feel pain if you’re peaceful.” I couldn’t look at her and see this again for myself, because looking at her would mean I would have to see past everything else first, and I wasn’t sure I could do that again. Not twice in one day. Instead, I continued to stare at him.
His gaze drift over her face, searching for what I had been talking about. When he found it, a little of the craze melted from his eyes, and his features seemed to soften. “You’re right.”
A moment of silence passed through the room. It wasn’t heavy, but instead held a calming quality.
“Coffee?” I needed to give him time alone with her. I needed to catch my breath again.
“Sure.” He never looked away from my sister. His stare was so intense, so set on her, it was as though he were trying to rouse her from this with his mind, to heal her with his thoughts. Maybe, between the both of us, we could. “Thanks.”
I slipped out of the room as quietly as I could. After I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it for support and shut my eyes. I had survived seeing Emma for the first time. The worst was over now. Right?
I SPENT FOUR DAYS at the hospital, waiting for the doctors to tell me they were waking Emma. Four days of misery. Four days of worry. Four days of hope building, and growing because of the positive words Dawson kept feeding me in conjunction with the doctors. Even though I knew Dawson said them more for himself than me, and the doctors said them because it was their job, they still helped ease my worry.
Some.
The day my sister was brought out of her coma was almost as scary as the moment I found out she had been in an accident. No one knew if there was brain damage. No one knew how she would handle the news of what happened. Again, all we could do was wait. People are right when they say the waiting is the hardest part.
I had been gripping one hand, while Dawson gripped her other when her eyes fluttered open. Confusion swirled in her hazel eyes. I knew she didn’t understand what was going on, but at the same time she did. I imagined her mind being complete chaos as she connected images from the accident to where she was. Her first words had been, “What’s wrong?” I wondered if she meant what was wrong with her, because she felt different, or if she’d meant with me. She squeezed my hand tighter, and I glanced across her to Dawson, realizing she was doing the same to his hand. All of my worries evaporated then, because I knew Emma was going to be fine. She could talk, and she could squeeze her hands. Both were good signs.
Hope bloomed through me, and I knew things were going to be all right. We could make it through this. Emma could make it through this. She was strong, and I could be strong for her.
I GRIPPED THE ARMS of Emma’s wheelchair and pulled with all my might. It was only two steps, but they killed me each time. I needed the church to finish building the ramp to the living room, because I wasn’t sure how many more times I could do this without my arms falling off.
“Almost.” I gritted my teeth together, giving one final tug. Emma hated this part. My sister had become as independent as she always was, even with the earth-shattering change of being wheelchair bound. Needing help up these stairs was demoralizing for her. It was clear in the way her shoulders slumped forward, and the twisted look of hatred that always shot across her face.
As horrible as it was for me to admit, I kept waiting for her to finally crack. I had always thought of my sister as a superhero, but even superheroes cracked under such pressure and disastrous situations. She hadn’t even cried yet. I suspected she was putting on a front for me, but when I spoke with Dawson about it, he said she must be doing the same for him as well.
“Whew. There. We made it.” I moved out of her way so she could get to the kitchen door. I needed a moment to catch my breath.
“Thanks,” she muttered as she used her arms to maneuver the wheelchair through the narrow doorway. Apparently, not all houses were wheelchair friendly, especially not the older ones.
Ours was built in the late sixties. The doors and hallways were barely wide enough for her to squeeze through even with a compact wheelchair, leaving no room for error.