Page 35 of Hypothetical Heart
“Do you know how she died?” I ask. It was something I was too afraid to ask my dad. It’s always been hard for him to talk about illnesses and injuries of people he’s closest to because he’s a doctor and he knows too much, which makes it so he can’t detach himself from situations.
Elizabeth gives me a weary look like she’s not sure whether she should answer. “Yes, I do.” The look on her face tells me everything I need to know.
“You’re an ER surgeon, aren’t you?” She worked on my mom.
She closes her eyes. “Yes. I was the lead doctor working on your mom.”
“I’m not blaming you,” I assure her. “I knew from the beginning that it didn’t look good for her. I just want to know how it happened.”
“She came in from a head-on collision. A truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and came over into her lane. It was shocking in and of itself that she didn’t die instantly.”
“How did she die then?”
“Her spine was almost completely shattered. She also had a traumatic brain injury. Even if she would have survived the blood loss, she would have been quadriplegic the rest of her life with severe brain damage.”
“She wouldn’t have been my mom anymore,” I realize.
“No, she wouldn’t have been.”
End of flashback
That was the only thing that helped me fall asleep in the nights after the accident. Knowing that if my mom wouldn’t have died, she would have been living a life that wasn’t fully hers.
We spent the night she died at the hospital and the next few at a hotel out of town. Weston came into town too, getting time off of school for grievance leave and to attend her funeral.
It was hard for him, knowing he was in another state when Mom died, but his type of pain was different. Even though he stayed in the hotel with us, he could at least go into our house and feel good about the memories he had there.
Dad and I couldn’t.
For two months after our hotel stay, I slept in the Callaghan’s living room and Dad threw himself into his work at the hospital because we were afraid of our own house—of the memories of her that were everywhere.
Genevieve would get me anything I needed from my bedroom, including packing me bags of clothes, and itwasn’t until early summer that I was able to go back inside, let alone sleep in my own bed.
And every night, Logan slept with me. Whether it was on the other side of the sectional or curled up on the floor, he stayed with me.
Through every stage of grief, through all the sleepless nights, Logan was there. Which only makes me even more grateful for him now, lying in my bed with me as I grieve the loss of my mom three years later.
For me, the pain never goes away. It’s like a static TV that sometimes fades into the background, and other times it's turned up so loud you can’t focus on anything else, but the presence of it is always there.
But there are other things just as constant as the loss of my mom that can sometimes help to drown out the noise, like the boy lying next to me.
11
The soft knock pulls me from sleep, and I peel my eyes open, realizing I’m not in my room. I’m in Winnie’s bed, and she’s still asleep, her body lying over one of my arms. Her hair is slightly tousled, her face peaceful, and there’s something about the way she’s curled up close to me that makes my heart tighten.
The door slowly creaks open, and for a moment, I’m worried it’s her dad who’s going to walk in and find me in his daughter’s bed. But I let out a sigh of relief when I see Genevieve’s head peek in.
When she sees I’m awake, she opens the door further, revealing Eloise. They must have let themselves in.
“How is she?” Genevieve asks as she and Eloise approach.
I glance at Winnie, still sound asleep, and brush a stray hair from her forehead, my touch lingering a little longer than necessary. “She was tossing and turning all night. I felt bad leaving. I must have fallen asleep.”
“Yeah, that’s what her dad said,” Eloise tells me.
I sit up straight. “Her dad’s here?”
They both nod. “He came back late last night and came to check on her and said he found you here.”
