Page 72 of Ashes of Us
"Sullivan family?"
"Yes," Mr. Sullivan said, stepping forward. "How is he?"
"He's stable. We repaired a fractured scapula and removed some debris from the shoulder wound. He also has three broken ribs and significant smoke inhalation, but his lungs are clear. He's going to be fine."
Mrs. Sullivan made a sound—half sob, half laugh.
"He's unconscious right now," the surgeon continued. "The anesthesia should wear off in the next few hours. We're moving him to a room. You can see him soon, but only immediate family for now."
"Of course," Mr. Sullivan said. "Thank you, doctor."
The surgeon nodded and disappeared back through the doors.
Silence settled over us, the words ‘only immediate family’ hanging between us.
I wasn't family, not anymore. Maybe I never really had been.
This was my cue to make an excuse and leave. This was their moment, their son, their?—
Mrs. Sullivan sat back down, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue, and Mr. Sullivan squeezed her shoulder.
Neither of them looked at me or said anything.
But neither of them suggested I leave either.
Twenty minutes later,a nurse appeared and gestured to the Sullivans. "You can see him now. Room 347."
We all stood.
The nurse glanced at me, then at Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. "Family only, I'm afraid."
"She's family," Mr. Sullivan said simply.
The nurse looked between us—me, clearly not their daughter, still in the clothes I'd worn to dinner hours ago. She hesitated.
"She's family," Mrs. Sullivan repeated, firmer this time.
The nurse's expression softened slightly. "Alright. Follow me."
"He's still unconscious," she said. "But you can go in. Just keep it quiet."
The Sullivans went in first. I hung back in the doorway, suddenly unsure.
God, what was I doing here? Liam wasn't mine to worry about, wasn't mine to visit, wasn't?—
Mrs. Sullivan looked back at me. "Come on, honey."
I stepped inside.
The room was dim, just one light over the bed. Monitors beeped steadily, and an IV drip hung from a pole.
Liam was there, lying still against white sheets. His shoulder was heavily bandaged, his chest wrapped. His face was pale under the oxygen mask, dark circles under his closed eyes. He looked smaller somehow. Vulnerable in a way I'd never seen him.
The Sullivans stood on one side of the bed. I stayed near the door.
"He's going to be okay," Mrs. Sullivan whispered, more to herself than to us.
Mr. Sullivan squeezed her hand.
