Page 107 of Lassoed Love

My breath catches at this revelation, unsure of what to think or say. His words hang in the air, a delicate mix of hope and uncertainty. I take a deep breath, my weariness evident, “How—how is he going to respond to coming out of the coma? Are there any risks or... complications I should be prepared for?”

Dr. Anderson acknowledges the gravity of the situation, “So, the process is gradual, and we will closely monitor his vital signs, neurological responses, and overall stability. While we aim for a smooth transition, there are inherent uncertainties in such situations. It’s a critical phase, and your father will receive the best possible care.”

As Dr. Anderson imparts the crucial information, the nurse and he move around my father’s bedside with a methodical precision. The soft hum of medical machinery blends with the low murmur of their voices, creating a symphony of hope and tension. The nurse then explains the intricacies of the process. “Isla, we’ll begin by gradually reducing the medication that initially induced the coma. This step allows your father to wake up slowly. Our ultimate goal is to withdraw the medication completely. Simultaneously, we’ll transition the ventilator to a mode that encourages your father to regain natural breathing functions.” Their movements are synchronised, adjusting tubes and interacting with the various medical devices that surround him.

The room becomes a theatre of meticulous care, each gesture a step toward my father’s potential recovery.

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Afew weeks have passed since they weaned my father off anaesthesia, and the weight of his comatose state lingers in the air, a persistent worry gnawing at my insides. Desperation for a distraction led me back to work, Katy and Molly reluctantly allowing it. The routine provides a semblance of normalcy, yet my anxiety has surged since the accident, threatening to spill into panic attacks.

The news of someone adopting Luna briefly lifts my spirits. I’m grateful she found a loving home, even if it's just a momentary reprieve. Katy’s suspicious dismissal of my inquiries about the adoptive parents doesn’t go unnoticed, but I decide to set it aside, making a mental note to dig for more details later on.

The contemplation of messaging Xavier dances at the edge of my thoughts, a relentless loop of doubt and longing. I was the one who asked for space, but how long is he willing to let this silence persist? The fear that he might have moved on, decided it was for the best, gnaws at me. Each day, the panic seizes me, making it difficult to breathe. I resist the pull of my medication, determined to face the restlessness and nauseahead-on.

Today, I decide to visit my childhood home, seeking a distraction, perhaps emptying out the bins. My father’s car, now a write-off, fetched a meagre cheque, just shy of $2,000. The irony isn’t lost on me—the money a bitter reminder of the night I offered Xavier payment for my father’s debt.

A dull ache settles in my chest, and I instinctively place a hand over my heart, as if the touch could ease the pain. It’s futile. I just really miss Xavier and the comfort he provided.

I pull up in front of the house, a wave of nausea threatening to overtake me. Stepping inside, the familiar scent of my father surrounds me – a mixture of alcohol and aged wood. I take a deep breath and get to work. The sink full of dishes calls for attention, and I start by cleaning them, then move on to emptying the dishwasher and taking care of the bins out front.

After dealing with the bins, an unexpected urge draws me back inside. For the first time since returning home, I find myself ascending the stairs to the hallway. A peculiar sensation tightens my chest—an unfamiliar pull that guides me upward. Call it intuition or whatever you want, but something compels me to explore. After all, I’d been here countless times before, and not once did I have any inclination to head upstairs—no need for it, until now.

Turning to face the hallway, I’m greeted by rows of pictures adorning the walls, capturing moments from my childhood. The timber trimmings, once pristine, now exude a weathered and rustic charm. The floorboards creak beneath each step. Nausea rises in my throat, and I instinctively place a hand over my mouth, swallowingdown the impending bubble of anxiety.

Each picture on the walls holds a profound memory, a visual narrative of my childhood. Some feature both my parents, frozen in moments of shared joy. Others showcase just my mum or dad, and there are even baby pictures—innocence frozen in time. A bittersweet smile graces my lips, tears welling up in my eyes.

Continuing down the hallway, I reach what used to be my old room. I take a deep breath, expecting to walk into an empty space—considering I hadn’t been here in over 7 years. As I open the door, my breathing falters.

I push open the door, and a wave of nostalgia washes over me. The room, frozen in time, tells the story of a girl who once lived here, dreams and memories etched into every corner. Sunlight streams through the half-closed curtains, casting a warm glow on the familiar surroundings.

Everything is exactly where I left it. The bed, neatly made, appears untouched, as though awaiting my return. The walls, adorned with posters of rock bands and movies from my teenage years, now seem like relics of a bygone era. The desk, cluttered with notebooks and doodles, reflects the chaotic creativity of my adolescence.

On the desk, amid the scattered objects of my past, a picture frame catches my eye. It holds a snapshot frozen in time—a moment that encapsulates the essence of our friendship. Imogen, Claire, and I, in our school uniforms, smiling like we owned the world.

The memories flood back to me vividly. It was an afternoon after school, and we’d decided to head to one of the local parks. There,beneath the shade of a towering tree and perched on a large rock ornament, we spent hours sharing our dreams, aspirations, and the naïve expectations we held for our futures.

I recall the laughter and the comforting aura of that day. Life had been carefree then, surrounded by the once-loving presence of my father and my beautiful mother. She was still alive at that time, though her health was a battle she fought silently—a venomous disease that ultimately took her from me, far too young, far too soon.

As I stand in the room, the image of that photograph resonates with a bittersweet intensity. The innocence captured in that frame contrasts sharply with the complexities of the present. Life has sculpted us in ways we could never have predicted back then, and the passage of time has etched its mark on each of our lives.

Tears blur my vision as I realise how much has changed since those days. The vibrant energy that once permeated these walls and this part of life has given way to the quiet and solitude of an abandoned space.

Moving with purpose, I find myself drawn to my parents’ room. The door stands slightly ajar, a silent invitation to revisit another chapter of my history. As I push it open, a rush of familiar scents greets me—hints of ageing wood and the faint remnants of my father’s cologne.

The atmosphere in the room is both comforting and haunting. I run my fingers over the surfaces, tracing the outlines of the furniture, absorbing the emotions embedded within them. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, savouring the familiar scent that wraps aroundme like a gentle embrace.

Walking over to my mom’s side of the bed, I notice the top drawer slightly ajar. It’s kind of odd – maybe Dad left it like that before….well—beforeeverything. I push away those grim thoughts and open the drawer wider, revealing a mishmash of crumpled papers, a couple of trinkets, and a bunch of sealed envelopes.

Old photos are scrambled at the bottom—snapshots of my folks in their younger, happier days. A delicate silver locket with a worn chain catches my eye and my breathing falters—mum’s locket chain bracelet. My eyes blur with tears. I pick it up and hold it in my palms, like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. She used to wear this all the time and I used to always play with it when I was anxious or whenever I used to hold her hand.When did my father take this? I thought it had been buried with her?

Tears spill out the corners of my eyes, and I quickly wipe at them, to avoid blurring my vision further. I clasp it tight into my palm, before putting it into my pocket. My eyes lock back onto a bunch of envelopes. Sealed envelopes that have been neatly stacked like they don’t belong here.

I take a seat on the edge of the bed. Picking them up, I see my mum’s elegant handwriting on the first one. It’s a letter, addressed to me. No, there are multiple letters—all addressed tome.My breath catches in my throat and I involuntarily hold them in my hands.

I look at the first one, the simple letters forming my name—Isla - 21 years old.A lump forms in my throat, and a profound sadness washes over me. My mind flickers back to the time when Mumpassed away, just after I turned 18 and graduated from Year 12 in high school. The memory of her witnessing my high school graduation remains a cherished echo, a moment for which I am immensely grateful.

Tearing it open, my eyes focus on her handwriting, and with a shaky breath I begin to read it.

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