Page 61 of The Beautiful Collision
MAYA
Of courseI had to draw thefuckingpediatric ward for my latest placement.
And today, it makes me want to quit nursing entirely.
“Maya?” Ethan’s voice is barely a whisper, his small hand cold in mine despite the three heated blankets we’ve piled on him. “Will you stay?”
The question shatters me, but I keep my voice steady and warm, the way I’ve been trained. “Of course, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
His mother, Rebecca, sits on his other side, her fingers trembling as she strokes his hair, or what’s left of it after months of chemo that ultimately failed. She hasn’t stopped touching him in the past hour, as if her hands alone could anchor him to this world.
His father, Marcus, stands at the foot of the bed, stone-faced and silent, but I can see the way his jaw is clenched to hold back the scream that wants to escape. It’s as if he feels that showing one moment of weakness would open up the floodgate on tears that have been trapped for weeks.
Ethan’s breathing has shifted to that particular rhythm I’ve learned to recognize—shallow, irregular, with longer and longerpauses between each inhale. The death rattle, they call it in textbooks. But textbooks don’t prepare you for how it sounds when it’s coming from a seven-year-old who spent last week telling you about his plans to be a dinosaur paleontologist.
“The machines,” Rebecca suddenly says, her voice cracking. “Can we… can we turn off the alarms? I don’t want his last…”
She can’t finish the sentence, so I just nod and reach over with my free hand to silence the monitors. The sudden absence of beeping feels like a held breath, like the whole world has paused to witness this impossible moment. In the quiet, Ethan’s labored breathing becomes the only sound, each exhale a little softer than the last.
“Tell me…” Ethan’s eyes flutter open, finding mine with effort. “Tell me about the angels again?”
My throat constricts. Last week, when his parents had been out of the room talking to the doctor, he’d asked if dying hurt. I’d made up a story about angels who come to carry sick children to a place where nothing hurts anymore, where they can run and play without getting tired. Not entirely professional, I know, but fuck professional when a dying child needs comfort more than truth.
“They’re here,” I whisper, managing to keep my voice from breaking. “They’re waiting just outside, and they’ve brought the softest wings to wrap you in.”
A ghost of a smile touches his cracked lips. “Will they… let me bring… Mr. Bones?”
Mr. Bones, the stuffed T-Rex that hasn’t left his bed since admission. “Of course they will,” I say. “Angels love dinosaurs.”
Rebecca lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob, pressing her face against Ethan’s shoulder. Marcus finally moves, coming around to place a hand on his wife’s back, his shoulders shaking now. He’s been an absolute rock, and watching him makes my mind flash to Maine supporting me at O’Neil’s?—
“I love you, Mommy,” Ethan breathes, interrupting my thoughts, each word requiring monumental effort. “Love you… Daddy.”
“We love you so much, baby,” Rebecca manages. “You’re our perfect, brave little boy.”
The pause between his breaths stretches longer.
Twenty seconds. Thirty.
His eyes drift closed.
His fingers in mine have gone completely slack.
“It’s OK,” I find myself saying, though I don’t know whether I’m talking to Ethan or his parents or myself. “It’s OK to let go. Your mom and dad will be OK.”
The lie burns my throat. They won’t be OK. They’ll never be OK again. But sometimes lies are the only mercy we have left to offer. And it gives me something to do as I watch this family shatter for no fault of their own, making me miss mine even more.
Would they even give a fuck if I was in this bed?
The thought is totally inappropriate, so I banish it, even as Rebecca’s keening wail cuts through me a moment later. It’s a sound so primal and broken that it feels like it’s tearing something inside my chest. Marcus collapses into the chair, his stone facade crumbling as he reaches for his son’s still form.
I gently extract my hand from Ethan’s, standing on legs that feel disconnected from my body. There are procedures now—time of death to note, paperwork to complete, and a doctor to notify. But first, I reach down and carefully tuck Mr. Bones under Ethan’s arm, making sure the dinosaur is secure against his small body.
“Take all the time you need,” I tell his parents, though the words feel inadequate, insulting in their emptiness.
What time could ever be enough?
I make it to the hallway before my legs threaten to give out. The wall is cold against my back as I lean against it. My chest feels too tight, like my ribs have contracted around my lungs. The fluorescent lights blur as tears I refuse to let fall burn behind my eyes.
