Page 17 of Finally Forever
“Sebastian is strong. A fighter. If anyone can pull through this, it’s him.”
“Yeah.” I nod and pray he’s right. Exhaustion from crying, stressing, and panicking weighs on me. I rest my head on Xavier’s shoulder and let my eyes close for a moment.
* * *
“Ainsley?” Someone taps my arm. “Ainsley, wake up.”
I open my eyes to find Xavier kneeling before me. What is he doing there? Last I remember, he was sitting next to me. Memories hit me at once, and I spring from the chair to my feet.
“Is he okay?” I sway, and Xavier steadies me.
“The surgery went well. He’s in recovery. You can see him.”
“I can? But I’m not family.”
“I talked to the nurse and surgeon. You’re his fiancée, that’s good enough.”
“What about you?” Xavier should be allowed to see him.
“I have permission too, but I thought you’d want some time alone with him first.”
“Thank you.”
I follow the nurse down a long hallway as she explains what I’ll see. “He’s in an induced coma to help his body heal,” she says with a French accent. “A ventilator is helping him breathe until we bring him out of it, which, depending on how quickly the swelling subsides, could be as soon as forty-eight hours. You can talk to him and hold his hand if you’d like. He won’t respond, but some people believe the patient can hear you and that it helps.”
Oh geez. “Okay.” I try to keep my body from shaking with a combination of fear and nerves. “What are the odds of him not waking up?” I ask in a small voice.
She gives me an understanding smile. “In this case, low.”
I nod and inhale a steadying breath as we enter the room.
Tubes and Ivs are connected to Sebastian. He looks pale and is lying so still it scares me. His mouth is covered with tape and a ventilator tube is down his throat to help him breathe, like the nurse said.
She checks the machines and tubes and smiles at me. “Everything looks good. You can pull that chair over if you want to sit beside him.” She gestures to a rolling stool near the window.
“Thanks.” I get the chair as she leaves and pull it close to Sebastian.
Tears roll down my cheeks. I want to talk to him, but I’m afraid I’ll sob instead. I need to get a grip. He’s not going to die. He’s strong. A fighter. He will wake up. This is temporary.
I’ve lived away from my mom for over a year and haven’t needed her once. Not her love, her advice, or her help. The notion of a healthy relationship—which never would have happened—might cause me to think about her on occasion, but I’ve been fine without her. Only now, I wish she were someone I could turn to for answers. I wish I could use her nursing skills and ask her about the devices and what she thinks regarding Sebastian’s coma and medical state.
I want to talk to someone who is knowledgeable and who I trust. I don’t know these people, and even though they’re nice, they’re foreign. What if they can’t fully understand my American accent? What if I misinterpret something they say with their French accent? More than anything, I want someone to tell me Sebastian will be fine and won’t suffer from any side effects. I’m not an idiot. I know anything brain related, especially that requires additional surgery and then an induced coma, can have major consequences.
I touch Sebastian’s hand. His skin feels warm, which surprises me. I expected him to be cold. Maybe because I’m freezing. My icy fingers can’t feel good against his warm skin, but I can’t bring myself to remove my hand from his. I need the connection. I sniffle in the silent room, apart from the beeping and humming of machines.
“Sebastian. I’m here. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’ll stay as long as they let me, and if they make me leave, I’ll come right back. Okay? I promise.”
I kiss his hand, wetting his skin with my salty tears. “Sorry.” I wipe away the moisture with my shirt, then cup his hand between both of mine and stroke the top of his skin.
I want to kiss his forehead, but there is a lot going on up there. It’s better if I don’t disturb him. He doesn’t belong here. He’s been through so much in his life, physical and mental abuse from his father. He doesn’t need any more scars, emotional or physical.
“I wish I could heal you. I’d trade places with you if I could.”
His hand twitches and I jump to my feet, the chair rolling behind me. “Sebastian? Can you hear me?”
Is he awake? Should I call the nurse? Is this possible?
“Sebastian?” I watch his eyes to see if they open.
