Page 91 of Tide Over

Heather’s hand rests gently on my back. “Liam?” she asks softly.

I take a deep breath, and bring my eyes to hers. “I just… I lost someone not long ago,” I murmur, my voice trembling.

She nods in understanding. “You’re not losing anyone else.”

I nod as I feel the tears start to well again. “You’re not either.”

She smiles, her own tears falling as she pulls me into another hug. “It took me years to walk into a hospital again without feeling like I was going to completely lose it,” she whispers.

I hold onto her tightly, finding comfort in her words and understanding.

When she gently releases me, she gives my arm a squeeze. “I’ll let you know as soon as he’s out of surgery, ok?”

I nod, the nagging guilt still present as I wish more than anything I could be there.

But Heather seems to sense it and shakes her head. “He’ll be out of it all night. But he’ll be so happy to see you tomorrow when he’s home,” she says gently.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

She gives my arm another squeeze and stands, giving Miss Bobber a gentle pat. “Talk soon, ok?”

“Ok,” I manage, my voice sounding far away.

Heather leaves, and I listen to the door closing behind her and the crunch of the gravel under her tires as her car heads down the driveway.

And I sit here, alone with my thoughts as I stare out at the water.

But as an image of wild hair, soft freckles, and a warm smile takes over, I latch onto it and try to keep my storm at bay.

THIRTY-FOUR

I siton the edge of the hospital bed, my arm in a sling and my hand and forearm wrapped in layers of bandages and a large splint. The doctor’s voice drones on with final instructions, but my eyes stay fixed on the floor while Mom and Heather listen intently.

“The forearm fracture will take about three months to fully heal,” the doctor explains. “But since both bones were fractured, plus the wrist, we could be looking at longer. We put three plates in due to the severity of the injury.”

I bite back the urge to tune him out completely.

“Your hand, however, is more complicated,” he continues. “Given the extent of the fractures and soft tissue damage, we may need another surgery in the future to improve functionality. For now, I’m referring you to occupational therapy to start early mobilization, manage scar tissue, and prevent stiffness.” He pauses for a moment, but I still don’t look up at him. “Progress will be slow,” he continues cautiously. “It’s going to be about six months to rehabilitate your hand. I’ll be honest… it will never be exactly as it was before.”

I close my eyes as my stomach drops and dread washes over me.

“But our goal is to get you as close to normal function as possible,” the doctor says. “And achieving this has a lot to do with the therapy that comes after surgery. So, work hard, and it will pay off.”

As he starts in on medications and pain management, I finally let myself zone out. Everything feels distant, muted by the haze of meds and the heavy weight of sadness sinking into my chest.

Until the bed dips beside me, and I glance up to meet Grandpa’s eyes. He offers a small, sad smile, patting my leg while the doctor finishes talking to Mom and Heather.

The doctor then gives me a nod with a, “Good luck,” and leaves the room.

“Ok, I think we got everything,” Mom says, glancing around the stark, depressing room.

“I already got your prescriptions filled, Theo,” Heather says, placing several pill bottles in my bag and zipping it shut. Then she looks at me with a forced smile. “Ready?”

I blow out a breath and push off the bed to stand, ignoring the fog in my head and the unsteady feeling beneath my feet.

“Wait,” Mom says, quickly stepping forward. “You’re supposed to use a wheelchair.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, walking past her and forcing my body to cooperate. “Let’s just go.”

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