Page 94 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
The word stings too. I need my children. Three beings I carried and fed and rocked to sleep. The three I buckled into car seats. The three people in the world I’d die for.
My heart. My soul.
The door opens. I see two shapes enter though I can’t move my head. My vision adjusts slowly, like my brain doesn’t want to believe what it’s seeing.
My mom steps into frame first. She’s pale. Hollow-eyed. Dressed in the same zip-up jacket I’ve seen a hundred times. She reaches for my hand like I’m five years old and I’ve skinned my knee. Her fingers are cold. Damp. She squeezes so tightly I think she might be holding herself together by my touch.
My father lingers behind her, a half step out of reach. His lips part, close again. He looks down, wipes his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry.
I blink up at them. Words sit on my tongue, tangled and foreign.
My mother says my name softly, over and over, as though I might drift off again if she stops.
I swallow and manage to eek out, “Where are they?”
The room shifts. A crack runs down the center of my mother’s expression.
She closes her eyes, then opens them. “They’re okay,” she says too quickly. “They’regoingto be okay.”
A sob claws at my throat. “Tell me.”
“Lila has a broken arm,” she says. “The bone fractured clean, they did a pin surgery already. She was brave. She asked for you when she woke up.”
My lungs fight for air.
“Jude’s got a concussion. No bleeding, but they’ll monitor him. He was…thrown.” My mom looks back at my dad who nods.
Thrown? I can’t bear to contemplate. My hands clutch weakly against the sheets. “Isla?”
Her face softens, then breaks all over again. “She…ah took the brunt of the glass. Has some deep cuts on both arms and hands. She’s been stitched up. They think there may be some ligament damage in her right hand, but she’ll recover. It’ll be a while. Therapy.”
Something deep inside me trembles. My kids are alive.
My kids are alive.
I whisper it to myself like a spell. Like maybe I can hold it in place, make it permanent.
Then I say his name.
“Cooper.”
By the way they both flinch and go rigid—I know.
My mother’s grip loosens. Dad sinks into the chair behind her, covering his face with both hands.
“No,” I whisper.
Silence.
The machines beside me keep going. Steady, unbothered. Like this is just another shift.
“Mom.” I’m panicked now. “Where is he?”
My mother can’t look at me when she says it. “He uh. He didn’t make it.”
The words don’t make sense. Didn’t make what?
A flight?
