A nurse steps into view before the silence becomes unbearable. Her scrubs are crinkled at the sleeves and there’s a pen tucked behind her ear. She glances between Declan and me, and then down at the children.
“The doctor’s ready to let you in now,” she says in a kind tone. “You can see your wife.”
Declan nods without speaking. Still holding Willow, he follows the nurse down the corridor, his gait uneven, as though he’s forgotten how to walk with purpose.
I trail behind, keeping my hands on the stroller as I push Emmett forward.
The hospital room is already occupied when we’re shown inside. A doctor stands at the far end, clipboard tucked beneath one arm, the other hand resting casually on the railing of the bed as if he hasn’t spent the afternoon keeping someone’s wife alive.
Declan stiffens beside me the moment he sees her.
Amerie lies motionless beneath thin cotton sheets, a hospital gown folded open at the collar. Her limp arms are splayed to either side,, her brown skin dotted with the marks of IV insertion and the papery edges of medical tape. A tangle of wires drapes over her, trailing from machines that emit soft, rhythmic beepswithout end. Her lips are dry and chapped. Her eyelids don’t flicker.
She looks ill in a way no makeup or lighting could ever soften.
Declan doesn’t move. He’s frozen in the doorway, as if stepping into the room might shatter something fragile between them.
I give his arm a gentle nudge.
He jerks forward, startled, and then steps toward the doctor.
“Mr. Keating?” the man says, reaching out a hand. “I’m Dr. Sharma. I’ve been overseeing your wife’s care since she arrived.”
Declan shakes his hand in that numb, automatic way men do when they’re too grief-stricken to be present.
Dr. Sharma glances briefly at me, then down at Willow, who’s clinging to my skirt, silent as a mute.
“Your wife suffered a severe hypoglycemic episode. It was a significant crash. Her blood sugar levels had dropped to a dangerously low point. Frankly, if the paramedics hadn’t arrived when they did, the outcome might’ve been very different.”
“When…” Declan starts, but the word catches. He clears his throat and tries again. “When will she wake up?”
“The good news is shewillregain consciousness soon,” the doctor explains. “We’ve already administered glucagon injections to stabilize her levels, and they’re rising steadily now. But because her body was without adequate glucose for so long, it’s caused some strain. We’re keeping her overnight for monitoring.”
I watch Declan’s face as he listens, his jaw tightening, his brow drawing low. There’s a shift in his posture, a slow bristle of frustration overtaking the helplessness.
“This doesn’t make sense,” he says. “My wife manages her condition. She takes her insulin. She eats right. Something this severe shouldn’t be happening.”
Willow shrinks further behind me, pressing her face into the back of my thigh. I rest a hand over her head, gently stroking her curls.
Dr. Sharma remains calm as he’s challenged. “I understand your concern, Mr. Keating. Believe me, we’re asking the same questions. That’s part of the reason we want to keep her for observation. At the moment, we suspect the insulin she injected may have been compromised.”
Declan blinks.
Sharma continues, “As I’m sure you’re aware, insulin must be stored in temperature-controlled conditions. If it’s exposed to extreme heat or cold, or if it’s been tampered with in any way, the chemical integrity can be affected. In some cases, injecting insulin that’s degraded can actually be more dangerous than skipping the dose entirely. The important thing is she’s stable now, and we’re confident she’ll make a full recovery. But for the time being, I strongly advise against any travel or strenuous activity. We’ll need to monitor her glucose levels and re-evaluate her insulin regimen. It may take a few weeks to get things properly adjusted.”
Declan nods slowly, his eyes glassy again. There’s no fight left in him, just quiet devastation as he takes it all in.
The moment the doctor is finished with his brief, Declan crosses to the bed. Willow breaks from my side without a word and rushes after him, her trainers squeaking softly on the linoleum as she flings her arms onto the mattress, clutching at Amerie’s lifeless hand.
I remain where I am, one hand on the stroller, suddenly an outsider.
Even in unconsciousness, Amerie is doted over.
She becomes the centerpiece of the room, the wounded victim in her hospital gown, bathed in soft machine light and the unconditional love of those who orbit her. Declan takes thechair nearest to her bedside, leaning in so closely their foreheads nearly touch. He smooths damp curls back from her brow with trembling fingers, murmuring something low and private against her hairline. His movements are tender, reverent, like he’s touching something made of glass.
Willow has taken up her post along her mother’s side, curled awkwardly against the blanket draped over her hip. Her little arms wrap tight around Amerie’s middle, and every so often she sniffles, her nose pressed against the thin cotton of the hospital sheets as if she can absorb her mother’s warmth by osmosis.
And then, as if that weren’t theatrical enough, Willow suddenly scrambles back toward the stroller.
