Page 131 of Lighting the Lamp
The scrape of a stool, the muted clatter of metal trays being pushed aside—it’s the sound of a room easing out of crisis. My lungs burn as if I’ve been holding my breath with him, and when it finally evens out, my chest caves with relief.
Beside me, Michele lets out a broken sob, muffled behind her hand. Cole’s jaw is locked, his knuckles bone-white against the chair he grips, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Then a nurse’s voice cuts through, calmer now. “Family’s in the hall. You can update them.”
The curtain parts, and the attending steps out, snapping off his gloves as his gaze sweeps over us. His eyes land first on Cole, then Michele, then Auntie Mel, cataloging faces like he’s searching for an anchor.
“Who’s his next of kin?” His voice is calm, clipped, but not unkind.
For a beat, no one moves. The words hang in the sterile air, heavy enough to make my stomach lurch. Then Auntie Mel steps forward, her hand finding mine in a grip that’s all steel wrapped in trembling.
“We are,” she says firmly, her chin lifting. “He’s our family.”
The doctor nods, his tone steady but softer now, like he knows we’ve all been holding our breath. “He stabilized after medication. His heart was beating fast and irregular, but we’ve slowed it down. He’s breathing on his own, his blood pressure is holding, and he’s responding. He’s not out of the woods, but for now, he’s okay.”
The words hit like a rush of air after being underwater too long. A collective exhale ripples down the hallway. Michele presses a fist to her mouth, her shoulders sagging. Cole drags a hand down his face, whispering something that sounds likeThank God. Auntie Mel bows her head, squeezing my hand so tightly my knuckles ache, but I cling right back.
My own knees wobble, relief crashing through me so hard it feels like my bones can’t hold it. I press my free hand to the wall, fighting to stay upright as my chest heaves with the first real breath I’ve taken since he fell. The ache behind my eyes burns hot, but I don’t care. He’s here. He’s still here.
“Can I see him?” The question rips out of me before I can stop it, raw and shaky.
The doctor studies me for a moment, then nods. “Briefly. He’s sedated and still being monitored, but you can sit with him. One at a time, please.”
Relief shatters something in me, messy and overwhelming, but I nod quickly, swallowing the tears that blur my vision. Auntie Mel’s grip never falters, her palm damp against mine, her silent promise holding me together as the weight of fear finally eases.
Auntie Mel’s hand squeezes mine once more, her nails biting just slightly into my skin. Her eyes shine damp, but her voice comes out steady. “Go on, baby,” she murmurs, giving my hand a squeeze that anchors me in place. “He’s waiting on you.”
My throat closes, but I nod. My legs feel like they belong to someone else as I step forward, the curtain brushing my arm as I slip inside.
The beeping is the first thing I register. Slow. Steady. Not the erratic, terrifying stutter it was before. The oxygen mask fogs slightly with each breath he drags in, pale condensation marking proof of life. He’s propped just a little on the gurney, wires trailing from his chest to the monitor, an IV taped at his arm. His skin is too pale, damp along his temples, but his chest rises and falls, rhythmic, certain.
Relief crashes over me so hard I sway, the world tilting until I have to brace my elbow on the bed. I drag the nearest stool closer, my hands shaking as I lower myself beside him. Myfingers find his hand—warm now, solid—and I cradle it in both of mine, pressing my forehead against the back of it.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I breathe, the confession shaking loose from under my ribs. “Don’t ever do that again.”
For a moment, nothing. Just the machines, the hiss of oxygen, and the ache of my own breath fighting to steady. Then, so faint I almost think I imagined it, his fingers twitch against mine.
“Lisey?” His voice is faint, but it cuts right through me.
“I’m right here. You stay with me, okay?” Tears spill hot and fast down my cheeks as I press his hand tighter to my face. “You keep fighting. I don’t care how stubborn you are. You don’t get to let go.”
His eyes don’t fully open, but there’s the barest shift under his lids like he’s trying. His hand gives the smallest clumsy squeeze against mine before slipping lax again. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep me rooted here, enough to make me believe he’s not letting go.
I sit with him like that, forehead pressed to his hand, tears dampening my skin, letting the steady beeping of the monitor become the only sound I trust.
Beau’s lashes barely stir when I lean close, his breathing slow and shallow under the steady hiss of oxygen. Whatever fight had flickered in him earlier is gone now, sleep pulling him under hard and fast. My chest aches at the sight, but I press my lips to his damp forehead anyway, letting the warmth of his skin ground me.
“You rest,” I whisper, my voice catching on the words. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
I brush my thumb once across the back of his hand, then force myself to let go. The stool scrapes softly as I stand, every step toward the door heavier than the last. The hallway is cooler, quieter, but the moment I see Auntie Mel waiting just outside,heat floods through me. Michele’s at her side, one arm wrapped across her stomach like she’s holding herself together, and Cole leans against the wall, jaw tight and eyes dark.
“You knew, didn’t you, Auntie Mel?” I say, the words raw and jagged in my throat. “About Beau having lupus. You’ve known this whole time.”
Auntie Mel doesn’t flinch, but her shoulders dip as though I’ve hit her where it hurts.
“Baby girl…” Her voice trails off, thick with something that sounds like regret.
Michele exhales sharply, her hand dropping from her mouth. “Wait—you really did know? And none of us…?”
