Page 53 of House of Soot

Thank you. For everything.

The words feel inadequate. How do you thank someone for potentially saving your mother's life? For being there when you need them most?

Another wave of nausea hits, but this time it's different, more like butterflies than sickness. Is this what real love feels like? Not the painful yearning I felt for Ronan all those years, but thisbone-deep certainty that I've found someone who sees me, who shows up when it matters most?

I know he’s disappointed in me for not taking my mom to the hospital. Clearly, he doesn’t have to worry about losing his job if the fancy dinner and hotel the other night are any indication. It’s a reminder of how much I still don’t know about him.

I force myself back to work. The Keans seem extra tense lately and want this engagement party for Ronan to go well. I try to keep that in mind as my resentment grows for making me choose between my job and my mother. The Keans took us in after the fire, gave us a home, jobs. But today… today, something shifted.

The garden has always been my sanctuary. Now it feels like a prison. Every flower I tend reminds me that I'm here while Mom faces surgery alone. Well, not alone, thank God for Blaise. But I should be there.

With my head down, I work and work. Hours pass until I’m almost done for the day. But each minute of those hours, I’m worried sick about my mom.

Finally, my phone rings with the hospital's number. Fear steals my breath. I send a silent prayer that everything is fine.

“Hello?”

"Ms. Hart?”

“Yes. This is Dr. Wallace. Your mother made it through surgery. So far, everything is going as expected. She’s in the CICU where she’ll be for the next five days or so if everything progresses well.”

My legs nearly give out from relief, even as I know it’s early days. Still, she survived the surgery.

“Can I see her?”

“She’ll have a breathing tube and be unable to talk. We’ll remove that tomorrow. But you can come and sit with her.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Mom's alive. The transplant worked. After years of watching her fade away, there's hope.

By the time I finish cleaning up my work area, my workday is done. The drive to the hospital is a blur. I park haphazardly and practically run toward the entrance.

“Kendra Hart,” I ask the nurse at the desk.

She gives me the room number and floor, telling me to check in at the nurse’s station. I take the elevator up, my body a bundle of nerves. Until I see my mom, there’s a part of me that worries.

When the elevator doors open, the smell of antiseptic hits me and my stomach revolts. I barely make it to the nearest trashcan before losing what little I have in my stomach.

"Are you alright, Miss?"

I wave off the concerned security guard, mortified. My cheeks burn as I wipe my mouth with a tissue. What's wrong with me? Mom's okay. I should be celebrating, not throwing up from stress.

But as I straighten up, another wave of nausea hits. The enormity of everything crashes over me—Mom's surgery, the Keans' threats, Blaise's condemnation of my choice to work. It's too much.

I grip the edge of the trashcan, taking deep breaths to pull myself together. Mom needs me now.

“Can I help you?” a nurse asks when I finally straighten.

“I’m sorry. It’s nerves. I’m here to see my mother. Kendra Hart. She just had a heart transplant.”

She studies me. “If you’re unwell, now isn’t a good time to visit. Your mother's immune system is vulnerable after the transplant. We can't risk any infections."

My heart sinks. Of course. How could I be so selfish? Mom needs a sterile environment, not her mess of a daughter potentially making her sick.

"I… I didn't think." My voice cracks.

“Do you have a temperature?”

I shake my head. “I’m just under a lot of stress.”

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