Worth Fighting For (Fighting to Be Free 2)

She gulped, her confusion growing. “How long for?”

“Almost two weeks,” Kelsey chimed in. “The doctors weren’t sure you’d wake up.”

Mom looked at me for confirmation and I nodded. “You had extensive head injuries and a brain bleed.”

She seemed shocked to hear this; her eyes widened and her grip intensified on my hand. Silence hung there for a few seconds before she looked around the room at the three of us again and her eyebrows knitted together. “Where’s Michael?”

An instant jolt of grief hit me like a punch in the gut. The doctors hadn’t told her. She didn’t know. She’d slept through the whole thing and didn’t know her husband of twenty-two years, her college sweetheart, was gone. I remembered how hard it was for me when I heard the news; surely it was going to be ten times worse for her.

I gulped and opened my mouth as Mom’s voice rose in a slight alarm as she looked at my nana. “Betty, where’s Michael?”

Kelsey had begun to cry, big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. I cleared my throat, willing my voice to come out strong as I looked at Nana. Her panic-stricken eyes met mine as her wrinkled lips pressed into a thin line. “Nana, why don’t you and Kels go get some coffee, and maybe buy Mom some magazines and candy for later?” I suggested.

Nana nodded, her expression almost grateful as she stepped to Kelsey’s side and draped an arm around her shoulder. “That’s a good idea, let’s go get your mom some things she’d like, all right?”

Kelsey looked at me and then down at my mom, whose eyes were now wide with panic as her gaze flipped between the two of us; she was gnawing on her lip so much that it was beginning to bleed.

“Go on, Kels,” I encouraged her, nodding toward the door. As she let Nana lead her out of the room, an intense feeling of foreboding gripped my stomach.

“What’s happened?” Mom rasped as soon as the door closed.

I gulped, unsure how to even word it. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” I croaked, reaching out and putting my hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Dad, he...” I shook my head, my vision swimming slightly from the tears that pooled in my eyes.

She drew in a sharp intake of breath, her whole body becoming rigid. “No,” she cried. “No, it can’t be. He wouldn’t leave me, he wouldn’t. There must be some mistake, someone must have messed up somewhere along the line, it can’t be true.” Her voice broke several times as she spoke; her eyes stayed locked on mine and I could see a full range of emotions flickering across her face as she silently pleaded for me to tell her it wasn’t true.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry,” I whispered, dipping my head and planting a kiss on her cheek.

Her mouth popped open as she shook her head violently. “No,” she whimpered. “He’s dead? Your father is dead?”

I nodded once, watching as her heart fragmented. Her chin trembled and her whole face crumpled. “But I can’t...He can’t be.” Her heart rate monitor jumped all over the place as she covered her face with her hands and cried so hard her body shook. “I want to die too, why didn’t I just die, too?” she moaned through her fingers, the sound harrowing and guttural.

I groaned and felt a stab in my heart as I reached out, stroking her hair back from her forehead. “Mom, it’s okay, I’m here, and Kels, we’ll take care of you.” I didn’t have the right words; there was nothing that would lessen this pain she was going through, so all I could do was watch and support. I hated the helpless feeling.

“Oh, Michael!” she cried.

I looked at her heart rate monitor worriedly, seeing the numbers in the corner creeping higher and higher. She needed to calm down. She’d just awoken from a coma; she shouldn’t be so worked up because it wasn’t good for her. Silence filled the room, the soft sounds of weeping all that could be heard over the erratic pounding of my own heart.

Her hands came down from her face, one pressing against her chest as her tears continued to flow. Her bloodshot, watery eyes met mine. “Your father was my soul mate, the other piece of my puzzle. I wish I’d told him more before it was too late.” Her lip quivered and she bit into it roughly, her breath hitching.

“He knew, Mom.” Of that I was sure. All the adoring looks I’d caught him shooting her over the years, all the secret smiles, all the heartfelt I love yous he’d said to her when he thought no one was listening. He’d worshipped the ground she walked on, even on her off days, and he knew she felt the same.

“I should have shown it more, sometimes I was so horrible to him,” she whimpered. She started crying harder. I had no idea what I could do or say to make her feel better, so I just leaned down and hugged her awkwardly, pressing my face into the crook of her neck as I wrapped my arm over her body, holding her as best I could in light of the awkward position of her lying on the bed. Her hand came up, tangling into the back of my hair as she gripped my other hand so tightly it was almost painful.

Her body trembled and hitched under mine. Her tears wet my hair and dripped onto my face as she clung to me, lost in her grieving. I gulped, trying to remain in control as her heartbreak threatened to swallow me, too. In that moment, I had never felt closer to her as I shared her mourning. This was the first time I had ever seen her cry—the dust-in-the-eye crying of my traveling departure was nothing compared to this all-out, soul-crushing heartbreak.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. My eyes stayed glued to the heart rate monitor as time passed, seeing the numbers in the corner slowly creep back down to a normal, steady rhythm. I pulled back carefully, looking down at my mother, now deep in sleep, her forehead and cheeks blotchy and splotched with red from all the crying.

I swallowed, reaching up to wipe my own puffy, tearstained face as I sat down in the chair by the side of her bed and took her hand. As I watched her sleep, I actually dreaded the time when she would wake again and have to deal with the loss and grief of losing her soul mate. In the silence of her room, I actually began to wonder if it would have been kinder and fairer to her if she had died.

A few minutes later, the door creaked behind me and I looked up to see the doctor step in. “She’s gone back to sleep. Is that normal?” I asked quietly, my voice raspy and dry.

He nodded, picking up her chart and scribbling some notes. “Perfectly normal. Her body can heal itself better while she’s sleeping. She’s been through a lot; she’s very lucky. It was touch-and-go for a while there.”

“I know,” I replied. I didn’t want to admit that along the way I’d kind of given up hope of this moment ever coming.

“How long until she’s well enough to come home?” I inquired, stroking my mom’s hair back from her forehead.

The doctor smiled. “There’s a long road ahead and I’m afraid it may be a little bumpy. Your mother will need to stay in at least a few more days. After that she’ll most likely need a wheelchair for a couple of weeks because of the extent of her injuries. There’s quite a bit of rehabilitation and physical therapy that’s going to be needed before she’s up and about and back to normal, but she’ll get there. With any brain injury, you can expect some good, lucid days and some bad days. She’s going to need extensive physical and emotional support.”

I nodded in understanding a

nd lifted her hand to my lips, kissing the back of it gently. “That’s okay. I’ll be there.” And I would. Always.

CHAPTER 22

THE MOOD ON the drive home from the hospital was distinctly more somber than on the way there. We’d all been so excited when we got the news she was awake; everyone was so happy, it hadn’t even occurred to any of us that Mom was two weeks behind events and wouldn’t know about my dad’s death. If anything, our moods were lower than before; we were all sharing in my mom’s newfound grief.

She’d woken and drifted off a couple more times during the visit, and each time had been just as heartbreaking as the first when she remembered and burst into hysterical sobs. The worst was when I told her we’d already held the funeral. She’d been devastated she hadn’t been there to say good-bye, and wailed about what Michael would have thought of her not being there. There had been no consoling her. The guilt I felt surged within me, twisted in my gut like a knife. But the more rational part of me knew I was punishing myself for nothing. The doctors had told me not to wait, that they weren’t confident she was going to wake. We could have been waiting forever for something that might never have happened; no one could see into the future.

Another part of me decided it was a good thing my mom had missed it. Her last memories of Dad were untarnished; she couldn’t remember the crash, so the last thing she said she remembered was being in the car and my dad singing—badly—to some Spandau Ballet song on the radio, trying to make her laugh.

I envied her. Whenever I thought of my dad now, all I saw was the funeral, the groups of crying people gathered, and the coffin sitting on the little raised platform. So maybe it was a good thing she’d slept through it; I kind of wished I had.

Leaving my mom had been hard. She was so broken and weak, miles away from the strong and in-control woman I’d come to know and love. It was like she was a little girl lost in a storm; the hospital staff had eventually given her a sedative to help her