Page 106 of Not For Keeps
The hospital’s waiting room is packed. Shoulder to shoulder. Boots tracking melted snow. Voices low, murmuring their concerns over what is happening with Analyse, what happened to Maya.
Lake City is a small town. And in a small town like ours, when someone gets hurt, the whole damn place shows up. Especially when that someone is Analyse. The entire town loves her and Maya.
Mari is pacing, arms folded tight across her chest. Anna sits beside her, wringing her hands. Hilda hasn’t said a word since we got here, sitting in her seat, frozen in shock. Every person is here. Teachers, parents, former students. They’re all packed into this fluorescent-lit room that smells too clean and feels too damn cold.
And I’m sitting here with Maya curled into me, her cheek against my chest, wrapped in one of the hospital’s scratchy blankets. She hasn’t said a word in over twenty minutes. When we walked in, the doctor checked her out right away. She had mild smoke inhalation and a few scrapes. Nothing life threatening.They cleared her after a round of oxygen and a full exam. They said she was lucky. Real lucky.
Her little fingers are still clutched in the fabric of my jacket. I think part of her is scared that if she lets go I’ll disappear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper into her hair.
She doesn’t answer, but her body softens just slightly.
Seb is sitting across from us, elbows on knees, head bowed. Every so often he glances toward the doors, like he can will them to open faster. Like the next person to walk through might bring news that doesn’t hurt.
The fire’s nearly out. Andres texted me ten minutes ago. He said the roof held long enough, and Nathan’s already starting the damage report. But none of that matters right now. Not to me. Because she’s still back there, and I can’t touch her. I can’t hear her voice. I can’t do anything but wait.
A nurse finally walks out. Everyone jerks to attention, the air sucking straight out of the room. Then behind her, the doctor walks in.
“Family of Analyse Garcia?” he asks.
We all rise, but I step forward, Maya still tucked against me.
“She’s stable,” the doctor says immediately, holding up a hand like he knows we’re seconds from unraveling. “She inhaled a significant amount of smoke, and she’s severely dehydrated. Her leg took the worst of it from a beam falling on her. She’s got a complex fracture of the tibia and fibula. We’re prepping for surgery to stabilize it and insert a rod.”
Mari lets out a sob. Seb covers his mouth. And I just grip Maya a little tighter.
“She’s conscious,” the doctor continues. “But in a lot of pain. We’ve got her on oxygen and fluids. Once we’ve completed surgery and she’s out of recovery, one of you can sit with her. But it’ll be a few hours.”
“Is she…going to walk again?” Anna’s voice cracks.
The doctor nods. “It’ll be a long road. But yes. She will.”
And with those words, the air shifts. Not joy. Not yet; we’re not completely out of the woods. But relief. Because she’s alive. Because we didn’t lose her. Maya’s mom is still here. I glance down at the little girl in my arms and finally feel her exhale, like she’s been holding her breath since the moment we left the school.
“Can I see her?” she whispers.
I look to the doctor.
“Not yet,” he says gently. “But soon.”
Maya nods, curls falling over her eyes. Then she curls tighter into my chest, and I hold her like a lifeline.
Once we got word that Analyse would be okay, I convinced everyone to head home so that she wouldn’t wake up overwhelmed by visitors. It took some effort, but Seb and Mari eventually took Maya back to their place for a bath and a real meal. We promised Maya that I’d call them as soon as Analyse woke up—so she could see her mom.
The seconds feel like hours, the hours feel like days. But I’m a man that can’t be moved…not until I see Analyse.
The nurse finally calls my name. I’m on my feet before she finishes the sentence. The waiting room hum disappears, muffled by the pounding in my ears. I follow her through the hall, past closed doors and machines that beep in rhythm with someone else’s pain.
She stops outside the room and gives me a soft nod. “She’s awake. In and out, but coherent. Just a few minutes, okay?”
I nod, but my throat’s too tight for words. Then I step inside.
The room is dim, lit only by the low glow of the monitorsand the fading light leaking through the blinds. Analyse is lying in the hospital bed, pale against the white sheets, a nasal cannula under her nose, IVs in both arms, and bandages on her temple and leg. One of her ankles is propped up slightly, and the monitor beside her chirps slowly and steady. It kills me to see her like this. I’d do anything in the world to trade places with her.
But her eyes are open. And my heart soars. I move to her side quietly, pulling the chair close, not trusting myself to speak. She looks at me for a long moment, lids heavy, lashes wet.
“Mateo…I knew you’d come,” she whispers, voice rough and paper thin.
