Page 35 of Faith Notes
Shaking my head, I try to clear some of the fog away. “I don’t think I can do this, Gray.”
“Yes, you can, Peach. You’re strong—so much stronger than I’ve ever been. You can do this.”
“Push again on three.”
I hear the words, but my body is tired. I physically cannot do it.
My eyes flutter one more time, and I struggle to open them back up—just one more time. I need to see Grayson’s face just once more.
“She’s crashing.”
“What’s happening?” I hear Grayson’s panicked voice, and I fight to make it back to him—to save him from having to see me like this. But I’m too tired, and the darkness is taking over.
Just before it swallows me whole, I hear Grayson scream. “No, Peach. You won’t do this to me. Wake up, Georgia. Wake up.”
And I try. I really do, but I’m too far gone.
Chapter 14
Grayson
35 Weeks
“Do something,” I yell. “Save her.”
But no one is listening to me.
Fear, unlike any I’ve ever known, has me paralyzed.
I can’t think. I can’t move. All I can do is stand there, helplessly watching as my wife fades away and the doctor and nurses struggle to get my little boy out.
My knees buckle, sending me to the ground. The concrete rises up to meet me, but I don’t feel the impact.
I don’t feel anything except this terror coursing through my veins.
The room around me is muted, my breath loud in my ears.
And in an act of desperation, I lift my eyes to the one I know can save her.
“Please, God. Please.”
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“Grayson.”
My head feels heavy when I lift it to look at the person calling my name.
It’s been over an hour since a nurse led me out of the delivery room to wait. It might as well have been a lifetime.
My eyes burn from the tears, and my throat is dry from the amount of times I’ve begged God to save my wife and son. I’ve made so many promises to him, and yet they all seem inadequate.
Blinking through the blurriness that is heavy in my eyes, I find my dad standing in front of me, worry evident in the wrinkle of his brow. His own eyes are rimmed with red like he’s been crying, and the sight of him shatters me.
My legs won’t bear the weight of my body, and my heart can’t bear the weight of my grief. Without a thought, I drop my head into his stomach like a small child needing the comfort of the parent, and then I fall apart.
He doesn’t say a word. I think he knows that words won’t make this better—that he can’t make this better. But he holds me together, being my strength when I have none left.
“Dad.” His name is the only word I can get past my lips, and it is more of a croak than anything.
