Page 204 of Come Back To Me

Seeing Dean covered in blood on that hospital bed… there’s no place for children there. There’s no room for peace when evil as vile as that lurks at every bend. I know Dean wanted out, but I had no idea how he planned on doing it. He kept telling me he was almost there, that he was almost done. He couldn’t have meant likethis. He couldn’t have meant thathewas almost out without taking me and our baby with him.

It went wrong. Whatever he thought he had to do, he clearly didn’t achieve it. Otherwise, why else would he be fighting for his life the way he is? There’s no room to envision the possibility of him not coming home. Looking around at those of us still here, do I really want to live amongst this without him? If he… if he doesn’t wake up, what is there here for me?

I bite down on the pain, looking up when the door to the theatre room opens. I stand, seeing the same nurse from earlier approaching. I don’t need to say anything as she studies my face. “We’re moving him to a room on the ICU. You should be able tosee him soon.”

“Thank you,” I say on a lost breath. My throat burns from crying.

As she walks away, Jess—who refused to leave, stands next to me. “I’m going to grab us some coffee. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll help.” Travis pushes to his feet, stretching his back. He’s exhausted, and judging by the blood all over him, he was the one who carried Dean in.

He steps past me, but I place my hand on his arm, stopping him. When he turns, I slowly curl into him, a silent thank you and show of love that I’m glad he’s okay.

He wraps his arms around me. “He’s going to be okay,” he says into my hair, before he lets me go and walks with Jess.

Moments after they’re gone, the theatre doors open, and a rush of cold air kisses my cheeks.

Mop quickly moves to my side as Dean is wheeled out. It takes every piece of strength I possess to stay up right. If it wasn’t for Mop’s hand on me, I wouldn’t manage it.

Dean isn’t awake. His body’s still covered in blood and destruction. It’s bleak, a grim slap to the face that he’s not out of the woods yet.

“Do you want to come now?” Another nurse holds out her hand for me to follow.

I look up at Mop, giving him a nod as I go. Following the rolling bed, I hold my breath until he’s pushed into a private room. Looking through the small glass window, the machines come to life and start beeping.

The nurse sees that he’s covered with enough blankets, and I wait as various wires are plugged into different tubes coming out of him. He’s so pale.

“Mrs Carter?”

I turn to look at the doctor stood holding a clipboard.

“Has a nurse spoken with you yet?”

I shake my head, looking back at Dean.

“Your husband,” my heart sinks, “suffered a punctured lung caused by the bullets to the chest. He was lucky in the sense they didn’t hit any major blood vessels or arteries, but he’s currently unable to breathe by himself.”

My throat clogs. Wrapping my arms around me, I manage to look to the doctor. “Will he make it?”

The doctor quickly scratches his head, his eyes sunken in. “Surgery was difficult. There was shrapnel in the lung damaging part of the oesophagus, but we were able to remove most of the larger parts.”

“Most?”

“He may require further surgery. It was too risky to continue at the time.” The doctor drops his head. “He lost a lot of blood. He’s had a blood transfusion and been given IV fluids. He’s also been given some antibiotics. The tube we placed to drain the blood and fluid in his lung has helped, but the machine you can hear beeping is breathing for him.”

My tears fall but I don’t wipe them away.

“I know how scary things must look, Mrs Carter. Rest assured he’s in the best place he can be. If he manages to start breathing for himself and is stable enough, we’ll be able to carry out more surgery.”

If he manages. All I can do is nod. Understanding.

Placing a hand on my arm, the doctor tries to smile. “Make sure you get some rest.”

I smile as best I can before he leaves.

Gathering strength, I step into the room with cautious feet, my legs shaking. His back is torn up, the stitches stretching from the top of his shoulder to the middle of his spine. Above his hip, an incision is swollen and angry. I struggle to breathe looking at him this way. It’s agony. He’s been in surgery for hours. His body needs to heal.

“Let me get you a chair.” The nurse sees me stood still, sensing my hesitation. She moves and pulls a chair to the side of the bed, facing the side Dean’s laying on.

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