by L. E. Rico
With sudden, earth-shattering certainty, I realize that I’ve been waiting for an explanation—for an apology—all these years, when it’s me who owes it.
And now, it just might be too late.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jameson
I’ve always believed that children have a little magic to them…the last bit of fairy dust that we’re born with—and which has totally rubbed off by the time we’re adults. So I can’t say that I’m really, truly shocked when it’s Jackson who finally penetrates into the haze of Big Win’s coma.
He’s been unconscious long enough now to tip the scales toward severe brain damage, permanent coma, or even death. My sisters and I, Scott, Win—we’ve all been here at different times throughout the day and night, chattering away. Bailey told him all about her “crowning” as she shaved his face. Hennessy trimmed his toenails while regaling him with the wonders of her sweet Bryan. For their part, Win and Scott and Bryan have stuck to more manly topics, like the possibility of the Twins moving on to the playoffs and big bass season up near the Canadian border.
Today I’ve received special dispensation to bring Jackson in to visit with his grandfather. We’ve all been afraid that things could take a turn for the worse quite quickly, and I want him to hear his grandson’s voice one last time if that’s the way this all turns out.
“Goppa!” Jackson screeches happily as soon as he lays eyes on Big Win, still and silent in the hospital bed, his chest moving up and down with the aid of the respirator. “Goppa! Goppa!”
“All right you, hang on there,” I murmur as I work to free him from the harness of his stroller even as he’s pulling and wriggling against me. “Hey there, buddy, hold on a second…”
I’m thinking I’m going to have to call in the Jaws of Life to get Jax out when he finally springs free. Before I can wrangle him, he’s speeding at full tilt toward the bed and crawling up into it next to Big Win.
“Jackson! No, no, no, baby! Goppa needs his rest…”
But it’s too late. Jackson has kicked off his tiny sneakers and snuggled under the covers, insinuating his little body in between Big Win’s chest and his arm.
“Beddy-bye, Goppa! Beddy-bye!” he giggles and snuggles and, to my shock, simply falls asleep.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter as I rummage through my bag for my iPhone.
I’ve got to get a picture of this. I think. Is it ghoulish to take a picture of someone in this condition—even if they have a cute little red-headed munchkin curled up with them? Oh, hell, I don’t know, but it’s not going to stop me from preserving this memory. I make my way around the bed, taking the shot from different angles, watching on the screen display to be sure I’m not cutting off the tops of their heads or anything. Then I switch to video so I can be sure to capture Jackson’s adorable snoring.
That’s when I see it.
I stop and pull the camera away from my face, and I watch, and I wait. But there’s nothing. Frantically, I scroll back through the video footage, zoom the image in, and watch it again. And again. And again. Because I can’t believe what I’m seeing. In an instant I’m in the hallway at the nurses’ station, asking them to page Dr. Douglas. Thankfully, he’s close by, and it’s only a minute or two before I’m breathlessly explaining. He looks at the video, his eyebrows arching in surprise, then he hands me back the phone.
“All right, Jameson, let’s go inside and see what Big Win’s up to now,” he says, leading the way back into the hospital room. I follow him, texting Scott as I do.
It takes another five minutes, but he does it again. Jackson burrows deeper under the blanket in his sleep. He slings his tiny left arm up and onto Big Win’s substantial chest. A few seconds later, Big Win’s thumb moves to brush over my son’s skin.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, my hand flying to my face. “Do you want me to move Jackson?” I ask the doctor.
He shakes his head, pulling a small penlight out of his pocket. “Nope. This little boy seems to be what’s reaching deep down into Win’s subconscious right now. Let’s leave him right where he is.”
Doc Douglas moves around to the other side of the bed, gently prying Win’s eyelids up one at a time, moving the penlight from side to side in front of his retinas. When he’s done there, he moves down to the foot of the bed and pulls a small metal pinwheel from the same pocket. He runs it over the sole of Big Win’s left foot.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, dear, sweet Jesus,” I murmur, crossing myself as I see my father-in-law’s toes curl in response to the stimulus. The doctor repeats the process with the other foot with the same results.
“Win, can you hear me?” Doctor Douglas asks loudly.
I hold my breath. There’s nothing.
“Win! If you can hear me, wiggle your toes, Win.”
We wait and there’s nothing. I’m about to burst into tears when I see the slightest movement in his left big toe.
“Good man! Win, try to open your eyes for me,” he commands, moving back to the head of the bed. “Come on, you stubborn old coot, open those eyes for me. I know you want to see your grandson again…”
Slowly, as if it is a tremendous effort, Win’s eyes flutter open and then close again against the bright fluorescent lights.
I run to the wall and flip the lights off. After a few seconds, he tries again, this time managing to keep them open as he blinks through the fog that must be clouding his every sense right now.
“Excellent!” Doctor Douglas says.
He moves behind Win to the ventilator controls and pushes a few buttons. I know from my experience as a nurse that he’s reducing the flow of the vent to see if Big Win can breathe on his own. If he’s dependent on it for respiration at this point, it’s unlikely he’ll ever come off of it. I bite my lip, hold my breath, close my eyes, and pray.
…
“Dad?” Scott comes around the corner so quickly that he slides across the waxed linoleum floor, barely coming to a complete stop before he can hit the bed.
Big Win is sitting up with Jackson tucked under one arm, happily chattering to his “Goppa.” When my son spots him, he points and announces his arrival:
“What the helllen, Unca Sock!”
This makes Big Win smile. I’m seated on the other side of the bed, closest to the window, as close as I can get without actually crawling up there with the two of them. Scott pulls a chair over and sets up on the opposite side, his father’s eyes never leaving his.
“Dad…” he utters on a long sigh. “You’re awake…We thought… I thought…”
The older man gives a tired smile and holds out his hand for Scott to take.
“He can’t really talk just yet, Scott,” I explain. “He was intubated for a long time. His throat is very irritated, so Doctor Douglas says he has to stay silent for now.”
Scott looks from me to his father and back again. “Is he…?”
The question hangs there, over the bed between us, like a living, breathing thing. He doesn’t finish it because he doesn’t dare…and because he knows that I know what he’s asking. I nod and give him my most reassuring smile.
“They’ve already run a CAT Scan and an MRI and a bunch of other tests. We’re waiting on the full results, but early word is that he’s doing great. Right, Win?” I ask. He nods and gives Scott’s hand a squeeze. “We’re taking it slow, but he was able to whisper a few words earlier, and he can follow directions. There’s a little weakness on his left side, but nothing that can’t be worked out with PT down the road.”
Scott looks as if he’d like to say more, but he doesn’t quite know how. Maybe I can make this a little easier for both of them by giving them some privacy.
“Okay, let’s get you home for your lunch, Mr. Jackson,” I say, standing up and grabbing him from the side with my good arm. He does a good job of climbing into his own stroller, and I start to buckle him in. “I’m going to leave you two alone for a while.”
“Oh, James, you don’t need to
—”
“Yes, I do,” I cut Scott off before he can try and convince me otherwise. “You haven’t spent any time in a room together for ten years.”
He gets to his feet and looks down at his father with concern. “Dad, you okay if I help Jameson get the baby settled in her car?”
Big Win nods and waves him away.
“Oh my God,” Scott murmurs under his breath once we’re out in the hallway and rolling toward the elevator. “I-I can’t believe it. And he seems so…normal. I thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to comprehend or speak or any of that stuff that a stroke affects.”
“The brain is still a mystery,” I explain. “We don’t know why it reacts in some ways and not others. But you need to keep in mind, too, that he still needs a bunch of tests to determine the extent of the damage. It could affect his emotions, his speech, his ability to find the right words, his coordination. For now, he appears to be way ahead of the game. And the fact that he’s interacting with us—the fact that he’s alive after all this time—is nothing short of miraculous.”
The elevator doors slide open, and he holds them as I push the stroller inside. Jackson is already sound asleep. The doors close, and we’re no sooner in motion than Scott turns around and pushes the STOP button, halting the elevator’s progress midway between floors.
“What? What is it?” I ask, suddenly concerned.
He turns around and closes the distance between us, forcing me to back up against the wall of the elevator.
“It’s you,” he says quietly. “You did this. You wouldn’t give up on him. You’re the one who kept trying to reach him. You were the one who saved his life that day he collapsed. Jameson, none of this would be happening were it not for you.”
His gaze is so intense and his words are so raw and sincere that I feel my face grow hot. I shake my head slightly. “I helped, Scott, that’s all. Big Win is a fighter. And he loves his family more than anything on the face of this earth. He came back on his own for Jackson. And for you. And for Win.”
I wait for his response, but it doesn’t come in the way I anticipate. Scott opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. He shakes his head, breathing heavily as his rich, brown eyes bore into mine. I’m about to say something else when he takes that final step forward—the one that brings him into my personal space. He takes my face in both of his hands and he kisses me.
And just like that, my world turns upside down.
Scott: “Hey, Siri, how do you know if you’re in love?”
Siri: “I read the internet in my spare time.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Scott
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d wanted to. And I didn’t want to. I don’t want to. She doesn’t push me away, nor does she lean into me. She just lets me kiss her sweet, soft lips, my hands moving along the sides of her face and through her hair. It doesn’t last more than a few seconds, but that infinitesimal slice of time tells me more than hours of conversation have up to this point. When I pull away, she just looks at me.
I don’t apologize. I won’t apologize. Because I wouldn’t take it back. I’d do it all over again. And I hope to. Very soon. For now, though, I simply turn around and release the STOP button in the elevator. We continue our three-floor descent in silence. When we reach her car in the parking lot, I hoist the sleeping Jackson into his car seat and get him buckled in.
“Thank you,” Jameson says quietly when I’ve closed the back door.
“No, Jameson, thank you. Can I call you later so we can talk? You know, about him and me? And…about you and me?”
My tone is hopeful but also uncertain. I realize that I might have just screwed up a really good thing with that stunt. But my gut tells me that’s not the case.
She smiles. It’s a real smile. A sincere smile. “Absolutely. Your brother doesn’t know yet. Do you want me to call him?”
“No. I need just a little time alone with my father. Then I’ll call him myself.”
“Okay.”
I open the driver’s side door for her and support her elbow as she hops up and in. “You’re okay driving with the cast?”
“I am,” she assures me.
“Jameson?”
“Yes?”
“Can I maybe do that again sometime?”
A long beat of silence fills the space between us.
“Yes,” she says finally. “Yes, Scott, I think I’d like that. A lot. But right now, you’ve got more important things to deal with. So go. Go be with your father. Tell him how you feel. Tell him everything that’s in your heart, Scott. Don’t hold any of it back. He’s a strong man and he can take it. And when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting for you.”
Before I can reply, she’s rolled up the window and is backing out of the parking space. She lifts the pink cast up in a good-bye wave and drives away, leaving me standing there, looking after her like the fool that I am.
…
Doctor Douglas is sitting with my father when I return to his room. He stands up and offers me a hug. I welcome the contact as he pats me firmly on the back.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he asks.
“God, yes,” I agree heartily.
“Well, I was just telling Big Win here that initial test results look good. I’ve got my fingers crossed that some therapy—physical, speech, and occupational—not to mention a consult with a good nutritionist will get him in good working order by the end of the year.”
I shake my head in wonderment. Yesterday he was unresponsive, with ever-shrinking chances of recovery. Today, he’s sitting up and watching my every word, my every movement.
“Your father’s voice should be back in a few days—a week at the most—but in the meantime, he asked for a white board so he could communicate a little better,” the doctor explains, pointing toward the small, square whiteboard sitting on the hospital bed, a black dry erase marker next to it. “I’ve agreed—but that is not a license to get into emotional conversations right now. I know it seems like he’s been resting for a very long time but, believe it or not, he’s going to get worn out pretty quick. So go slow. Both of you. Understood?” He looks at me and then at my father, and we both nod our agreement. “Okay then, I’m going to leave you two to it.”
Once Dr. Douglas is gone, I take the seat he’s just vacated.
“Hi, Dad,” I say quietly. “I, I…uh…came back as soon as I heard you weren’t well.”
He picks up the whiteboard, and with a slight tremor in his hand, he begins to write on it with the marker. He’s slow. It takes time for him to form the letters. When he’s done, he turns it so I can see. His handwriting is wobbly, like a child who’s first learning to write, but it’s legible.
“My son”
I smile and nod and sniff, unable to stop the tears that have started falling down my face. While I reach for a tissue on the bedside table, he wipes the board and starts again.
“You know the truth?”
I nod. “Yes, I think so. And I have so many questions. But all of that can wait until you’re stronger. I just want you to know how sorry I am that I left like that. That I shut you out of my life. I have so many regrets, Dad.”
I try to take his hand, but he pulls it away so he can write again, shaking his head and making a stern face.
“NO regrets! You’re here now.”
He shows me the words and then underlines them harshly, still shaking his head.
“Dad…did you set this up—your healthcare proxy—so that I’d have to come here and be with Win?”
Something slightly impish flashes across my father’s face. He’s nearly smirking by the time he’s done writing.
“I wanted you home.” He’s underlined the last word.
“Well, you got me here. And I promise I’m not going to take off on you. Not this time, Dad.”
“I love you.”
I get up and move to the edge of his bed so I can wrap my arms around him and rest my head
on his chest. I feel his big, warm hand gently patting my back, and that’s when I begin to cry. It’s a sniffle at first. Then a few gulps and gasps. It doesn’t take long until I’ve melted into a sobbing child in my father’s arms.
“Shhhh,” he says from above me. “Shhhh.”
I look up into his face, and he smiles back down at me.
“My son,” he manages to murmur in something even softer than a whisper. “Always my son.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jameson
“I’m sorry—I just don’t get it. How can something with the word ‘curd’ in the name be a good thing? ‘Blood-curdling scream,’ ‘curd and whey,’ ‘cheese curds’…yeah not appetizing at all,” Bryan is insisting as he navigates his SUV toward the county fairgrounds.
“Is he serious?” Scott asks, turning around in the passenger seat to face me, Walker and Henny. From where I’m sitting, I have a good view of his profile. The strong jawline and slightly cleft chin. He’s got just enough scruff to make him look rugged but not sloppy. Same with his hair. Just tousled enough to look easy, but not messy. And when he tilts his head a certain way, I can see his long, dark eyelashes. Eyelashes that would look way too feminine on any other man. But not Scott Clarke. They’re sexy as hell on him.
I’ve been putting the words “sexy” and “Scott” together a lot over the last few days. Since he kissed me. Since we kissed. This is the first time we’ve been together outside of the hospital, and we haven’t had the opportunity to discuss the implications of our little elevator encounter. Nor have we had the opportunity for an encore. But I’m kinda hoping…
I shrug and smile. “Hey, he’s from L.A. Maybe they have a preternatural fear of dairy products or something.”
“Hey! Nothing wrong with L.A. You Minnesotans are the whacky ones. Cheese curds! And didn’t you say people eat their fair food on a stick or something?” Bryan challenges.
“Oh, yeah,” Walker murmurs from next to me. “Deep fried candy bars on a stick.”