Page 3 of Rejected Heart
I couldn’t think about any of it right now.
Because I had to go to the hospital.
My mom. My poor mother had wound up in a horrifying car accident yesterday, and I got the call just minutes after I’d arrived at work.
When I’d received the call, I hadn’t been given any idea as to how severe things were for her, but I’d been told that my mom had been rushed into emergency surgery. So, I left work, ran back to my apartment to grab a handful of things I’d need, and set off on the hour and a half long drive from New York City back to Landing, Pennsylvania.
The uncertainty and fear I felt about the state of my mom, and what I’d find when I arrived, made the drive feel impossibly long, like it had taken four or five hours instead of less than two.
Fortunately, she was alive and had made it through the surgery, but she’d suffered massive injuries, the worst of which was a compound fracture of her femur. I stayed with her for hours in the hospital yesterday, but she’d slept through most of it—the effects of still having the anesthesia in her body. Last night, once visiting hours were over, I came back to her house to sleep.
Now, I needed to head back there to see her, to make sure she was doing okay, and to come up with a plan for the next few weeks and months. Because she wouldn’t be able to do it on her own. The doctors had made that much clear.
If nothing else, I’d be far too busy over the coming weeks. That alone helped to ease some of the racing thoughts I had about Liam and what an extended, unplanned stay in Landing could mean.
On that thought, I got out of bed and got myself ready.
And before I knew it, I was driving through the familiar streets of my hometown, trying not to get emotional and reminisce. It was never easy, not even in the times when I prepared in advance to come home for a visit with my mom.
I made it to the hospital, rode the elevator to the fifth floor, and felt my heart calm with each step I took toward my mother’s room. Though I was heartbroken for what she was facing over the next few months, there was no question that being able to spend time with her—even if it was like this—meant the world to me.
When I stepped into her room, I was surprised to seeher awake, the television on at a low volume. She rolled her head against the pillow and brought her eyes to mine. “Layla,” she said softly, a look of peace washing over her.
I smiled at her, feeling such relief she was alive. Crossing the room, I came to a stop beside her bed, placed my hand over hers, and leaned over to press a soft kiss to her cheek. “Hi, Mom. How are you feeling today?”
“It was a rough night, but they’ve given me some medication for the pain, so I’m doing alright now. How are you doing?”
I tipped my head to the side. “I’m not the one who had major surgery yesterday.”
There were still hints of drowsiness in her expression, her eyelids seeming heavy as a lazy smile spread across her face. “I know my daughter. Coming back here, especially on such quick notice, had to be so difficult.”
I pulled up a chair beside her bed and sat down. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now than here with you.”
“Thank you for coming. I know how hard it must have been.”
Shaking my head, I insisted, “Really, Mom. It’s okay. I’m happy to be here, thrilled to see you, and excited to spend some time with you. Of course, I wish the circumstances were different. Have you seen the doctor today?”
“Not yet. They said he should be in sometime this morning, though.”
I tipped my chin down with acknowledgement. “Okay. Good. I’d really like to talk to him about what he expects for your recovery.”
Her expression grew solemn.
“What’s wrong?”
She waved her uninjured hand in the air dismissively. “It’s nothing. I just… I think it’s going to be a tough couple of months.”
Reaching for her hand again, I shared, “Well, I’ll be with you every step of the way, so you don’t have to worry about doing it alone.”
Her brows knit together. “But what about work? What are you going to do?”
I stroked my fingers over the back of her hand. “I called them yesterday after you were out of surgery. You were here, resting, and I told them I was going to need some time off to take care of you.”
“And they were okay with that? I feel awful.”
“Don’t.”
“But it’s your job. And you love the work you do.”
