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I knew, and I kept it from the man I loved.
Fuck, what have I done?
I should have told him. Even if it meant betraying Margaret. I love Margaret, but I love Hunter more. He’s the one I owe allegiance to, he’s the one I should have been looking out for and protecting.
Because this? It’s clearly shattering him into tiny pieces.
He barely speaks on the way down to the lobby and lets me tell the driver to take the fastest route to Mount Sinai, even if it’s the longest route, because we have to get to a family member in trouble ASAP.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, taking Hunter’s hand as the cabbie darts out into the early evening traffic. “It’s going to be okay.”
But I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
And I’m not sure I do, either.
seventeen
HUNTER
The automatic doorsleading to Mount Sinai’s surgical wing whoosh open, releasing a blast of over-conditioned air that smells of disinfectant and fear.
My shoes squeak against the polished floors as we follow the signs to the waiting room, each step echoing in my ears like a countdown.
I hate hospitals. Have hated them since I was thirteen, and watching my mother recover from what my father claimed was another “accident.” That turned out to be the final accident, the one that led to Mom emptying his bank account while he was at work and us fleeing to New York to start a new life.
But I hadn’t known we were on the verge of freedom at the time.
I’d only known that I was alone with a monster in the emergency waiting room, wondering if my mom was going to make it out of that horrible, stinking hospital alive.
I try to shake off the memory, but it isn’t easy. The institutional lighting makes everything look sickly and unreal, just like in my nightmares.
“This way,” Elaina says, touching a hand to my shoulder and pointing to our right, where a small blue sign points the way to the surgical patient waiting room.
We charge down the hall and into a medium-sized space painted in sickly yellow-beige, with ugly, faded floral watercolors framed on the walls.
A television mounted in the corner drones on about weather patterns, the sound barely audible but somehow still grating. Two other families huddle in opposite corners, their faces drawn with the same fear I’m fighting to control. One woman clutches a rosary, her lips moving in silent prayer. The sight makes my chest tighten. I’m not a praying man, but I should have still been here, holding vigil, standing guard against Death.
As crazy as I know it is, a part of me truly believes that it would have made a difference. That Death would have seen me sitting here, with my fists clenched, ready to do battle, and decided to fuck with someone else.
Katie looks so small hunched in a chair under an ugly painting of a field of sunflowers, too small to give Death second thoughts…
“Mr. Mendelssohn.” She rises from her chair as we approach, more disheveled than I’ve ever seen her. Her blouse is wrinkled, her salt-and-pepper hair escaping its tight bun. There are coffee stains on her sleeve, making me think she’s been here for hours.
Hours I spent at work and walking the park, completely fucking oblivious to the fact that my mother was apparently fighting for her life in a surgical suite…
“Tell me everything,” I say, not bothering with pleasantries. “How did this happen? How is she now?”
“I’m so sorry,” Katie says, looking nearly as miserable as I feel. “I really thought you knew. Margaret told me you’d be arriving later, after she was awake. That you’d both agreed it was better for you not to exhaust yourself with worry.”
My jaw clenches so tight that I can hear my teeth grind together as I fight to maintain control.
“Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault, I just…” My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. “Just start from the beginning, please?”
Katie sags back into her chair, the vinyl squeaking beneath her. Her eyes flick between me and Elaina, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “Well, she’s been consulting with Dr. Garrett for weeks about this new, experimental procedure,” she says. “Something with nanobots? Those tiny robots they’re using to operate on spinal tumors they couldn’t get to before? The success rate isn’t high right now. It’s only about twenty-five percent in cases as advanced as Margaret’s, but when it works…” She trails off, her throat working as she swallows. “She was adamant about trying. She said she didn’t see that she had anything to lose, but so much to gain. She wanted more time.”
More time. The words land like blows, driving the air from my lungs. If she’d told me, I could have researched the procedure, found better doctors—the best doctors. I could have done everything possible to increase her chances.
I have connections and resources.