Page 95 of Lassoed Love

Imogen’s panic rises as she processes the severity of the situation. “Oh god, I’m on my way. Is she okay? Is Isla okay?”

I reassure Imogen as best I can, “Physically, she’s fine, but emotionally,” I sigh, “Just… get here safely. We’re in the waiting room.”

Imogen assures me that she’ll be here soon and hangs up, leaving the tense atmosphere of the waiting room hanging in the air. I return the phone to Isla, offering her a supportive glance.

As Imogen arrives, rushing through the doors of the hospital, her eyes lock onto us immediately, and she runs over. Isla stands up, and Imogen pulls her into a tight hug. Tears are now streaming down Imogen’s cheeks as she speaks to Isla in her ear. Their conversation is muffled, but I can see the mix of emotions playing across Isla’s face.

Imogen’s eyes turn to me, and she steps back, still holding Isla’s hands.

“Xavier, what happened? Tell me everything.” Her voice is filled with concern and a hint of panic. I take a deep breath and try to relay the details of the accident and Isla’s father’s critical condition.

The three of us stand there, a knot of worry and grief binding us together in the sterile hospital corridor. The air is heavy with the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

As an hour passes, Isla rests her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine and the other holding Imogen’s hand. I had texted my brother, letting him know what happened, and he’d said he’d be here as soon as possible. Our farm was a little further away from here compared to Isla’s place, so it’ll take him at least twenty-five or thirty minutes before he arrives.

Just then, a nurse enters the waiting room, calling out, “Ms. Isla Thompson,” and we all look up and stand simultaneously. She introduces herself as Shelley before informing us that the surgery went well, as expected, and, “He’s in the ICU. Follow me.”

Every step echoes with uncertainty, and my thoughts race. What the fuck happened to her dad? Will he be okay? My mind is a whirlwind of unanswered questions, but I push them aside, focusing onbeing there for Isla.

In the quiet hum of the hospital corridors, I squeeze Isla’s hand, silently offering my support.

We follow the nurse through a labyrinth of hallways, the stark fluorescence casting an unforgiving glow on our surroundings. Each step feels heavy, laden with the unspoken fear that permeates the air. Isla’s grip in my hand tightens, seeking solace in the warmth we share.

The distant hum of medical equipment becomes more pronounced as we approach the Intensive Care Unit. The nurse halts at a set of double doors, her eyes meeting ours with a mix of empathy and professionalism. “He’s just in here. You can stay for a while.”

Before we go in, however, Shelley warns us with a comforting tone, preparing us not to be disheartened when we see Mr. Thompson’s state. Isla, overcome with emotion, lets out a sob, and I instinctively put my arm around her shoulders, offering whatever comfort I can in this distressing moment. Imogen just gasps, putting a hand to her mouth.

“Fucking hell,” I murmur under my breath, a surge of helplessness coursing through me. The atmosphere of the ICU does little to quell the chaos within our minds. We exchange a glance that speaks volumes, sharing the weight of uncertainty that hangs over us.

We follow Nurse Shelley into the ICU, and the sight that greets us is gut-wrenching. Isla’s father, Mr. Thompson, lies in the hospital bed, surrounded by a web of tubes and monitors. His face is battered, adorned with cuts and bruises. Strapped up to thousands of cords, he appears fragile and helpless. A ventilator mask covers his face, anda long tube is attached to it, providing the artificial breath he needs. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors creates an eerie symphony in the background.

The nurse approaches, her voice gentle, yet probing. “Is Mr. Thompson on any medication? Does he have a history of drug or alcohol abuse?” Her questions hang in the air, and my concern deepens as she mentions the bottle of Jack Daniels found in the car. It’s a grim reminder of the circumstances leading to this moment.

A cry breaks free from Isla, escaping her lips as she processes the nurse's words. She nods, her voice trembling as she answers, “Y-yes. He does.” She sniffles. “He drinks. I’m not sure about medication though. He... he hasn't been doing too well. His memory is a little foggy.” Her words struggle to come out, her voice cracking under the weight of emotion. I place a comforting hand on her back, offering silent support during this difficult moment. Nurse Shelley, with a gentle and composed demeanour, begins to explain the situation.

“I understand, dear. I’ll make note of this on his file. Mr. Thompson…” She clears her throat. “Yourfatherhas sustained multiple injuries, including broken ribs and a collarbone. The ventilator is helping him breathe while his body heals. The next few days will be critical, and we’ll monitor his progress closely.”

Isla stands frozen, her eyes fixed on her father’s battered form. Imogen, her voice shaky, steps forward. “What about his head? Is there any head injury?”

Nurse Shelley nods understandingly. “Yes, he sustained a mild concussion. We’re keeping a close eye on that, too. The priority rightnow is stabilising him and ensuring his vital functions are supported.”

Imogen furrows her brows, worry etched on her face. “And the cuts on his face?”

“They’re superficial, mainly lacerations from the accident. We’ll clean and dress them regularly to prevent infection.” Shelley reassures. Isla, still processing the information, looks at Imogen, appreciating her friend’s concern for her father.

As the weight of the situation becomes too much for Isla, tears stream down her face unchecked. Unable to bear seeing her father in such a vulnerable state, strapped to machines and battling for his life, Isla moves to stand beside his bed, grabbing onto his hand as she cries. My heart breaks as I watch her, the depth of her pain cutting through me. Bradley, who had arrived shortly after this, offers a comforting hug, but Isla’s sobs persist, refusing to be silenced by even the most sincere gestures of support.

Imogen, grappling with the shock of the situation, has seated herself on the couch beside the bed. The room is filled with the heavy atmosphere of grief, each person grappling with their own emotions in the face of tragedy. In a hushed tone, Bradley lets us know that he’ll be waiting just outside, understanding the overwhelming grief filling the room. Isla, however, reaches a breaking point and declares she needs some air.

As Isla makes her way towards the door, Imogen rises from beside the bed, concern etching her features. “Isla, sweetheart, let me come with you. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Isla halts for a moment, glancing back at Imogen with tear-filled eyes. “No, Midge. I just need a moment by myself. I’ll be okay, I promise.”

The harsh lights cast a glow as Isla steps into the corridor, her steps heavy with grief. I follow closely, sensing her need for support. As we reach the end of the corridor, Isla comes to a halt, her body hunching over as she tries to catch her breath. The air is thick with sorrow, and I approach her, a silent presence offering solace.

“Isla,” I say gently, my voice a low murmur as I step close to her, keeping a respectful distance.

She doesn’t respond immediately, yet after a few moments, she finally speaks, her voice raw with emotion. “I just need a moment, Xavier. Please,” she says as she releases a deep breath.

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