Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I wasn’t quite in the state to admit to him that he was right, but I was also present enough to understand that standing here arguing with him wasn’t going to do shit but prolong the whole process.
So I got in the truck.
To his credit, he drove like a fucking maniac.
And it was a drive.
Jupiter had a small hospital that could handle most minor to moderate shit.
They ‘stabilized’ Fiona there and then airlifted her to a hospital two hours away.
Two. Hours.
Then again, it had nothing on the journey home from Iraq.
I’d spent twelve hours, thirty-eight minutes, and about forty seconds on that flight. All I knew was my wife and daughter had been in a serious car accident, and that they hadn’t made it.
That’s all I got.
And I spent every second of that plane ride telling myself it was going to be okay. That there was some mistake, some fucking mix-up that had terrible fucking news being delivered to the wrong person.
Yeah, I spent twelve hours wishing the death of a wife and child on another man.
And I came home to understand that there was no such thing as okay, and there was no such thing as hope.
Therefore, on the drive to the hospital, I told myself she was already gone.
They were already gone.
My wife. My baby.
That little shape on the fridge.
That second chance I had been handed on a silver platter and had scorned because I was a miserable son of a bitch who also happened to be a goddamn coward.
“If she dies, if they die…,” I muttered, staring ahead.
“If they die, you’ll have plenty of time to sink into a self-destructive depression and punish yourself for everything you did and didn’t do,” Rowan replied, also staring ahead. “Right now, as far as we know, they’re alive.”
No bullshit. No hope. Not to be cruel. Rowan was just being my friend at this point. Giving me what I needed so I didn’t completely fall apart. Hope might help some people hold on, but not me. Hope was the killer.
“You’re gonna get your shit together now,” he continued. “Lock it down and be there for them.”
The amount of déjà vu I was feeling at that moment was comical. Like we were really part of some sick simulation, and there was some nerd pulling the strings of my life, torturing me. It seemed so fucking ridiculous that I’d be going through this situation for the second time in my life.
I knew scientists or whoever had predicted that we had a fifty percent likelihood of being in a simulation, but I thought the randomness of life or God or whatever the fuck to be much more likely. This seemed like the actions of some vengeful deity, punishing me for my sins. For the lives I’d taken in the desert, for the family I’d abandoned… twice.
Rowan pulled into the hospital after I had my existential crisis.
I stared at the building and wondered whether I’d be told for the second time in my life that my wife and child were dead.
“Your wife was struck by a driver who crossed the center line,” the doctor told me.
I had vague recollections of tearing through the hospital until I found the person treating Fiona. She was young. Looked too fucking young to be practicing medicine, let alone being in charge of saving my wife.
“Is she alive?” I choked out.
“Yes, your wife is alive,” she replied. “She sustained minor injuries, contrary to what was initially thought at the scene and hospital. She was transported here on account of the pregnancy and the local hospital’s resources.”
There was a dull roar in my ears. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like she was telling me that Fiona wasn’t dead. “The baby?”
“The baby is also fine,” she said, glancing at the chart. “She’s… twenty weeks?”
“Twenty-one weeks and two days,” I corrected.
She gave me a tight smile. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be reassuring or condescending. I didn’t give a fuck.
“Your wife did suffer a broken wrist, some superficial cuts, one that needed stitches and she has some bruised ribs,” she explained. “But nothing life-threatening.”
“You’re sure the baby is okay?” I asked, my mouth dry. I’d been preparing for her to be dead or in some kind of induced coma, so in theory, those injuries should’ve reassured me since none of them sounded life-threatening, but hearing it out loud only served to make my heart race. A car crash that caused those injuries—a broken fucking arm—could not have protected a helpless fucking baby.
Another smile. This time I was sure it was supposed to be reassuring. “Though sometimes it doesn’t seem this way, babies are very resilient and protected inside the womb,” she explained. “You have a strong and healthy baby and a mother who will recover just fine.” Her eyes flicked to the chart, and I felt her attention wane from me to whatever she had next on her agenda.