The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

without transition, without any filters, I said, “I won’t give up on him. Do you hear me, Doctor? Don’t you give up on him!”

Doctor Peterson swallowed. I’m sure he must go through this sometimes. Delivering bad news to families. I didn’t really care about his feelings right now. I didn’t want realism. I didn’t want Ray’s doctor to be pragmatic. I wanted him to be a hero.

“I promise we’ll do the best we can for him.”

“I want to see him,” I repeated. I was shaking, from a mixture of exhaustion and desperation. “Even if it’s just for a minute. Please.”

Peterson sighed and said, “All right, follow me.”

Michael and Kate fell into step behind me, and Peterson stopped immediately. “Just Carrie for now.”

Kate’s eyes fell on me with what I was certain was a mix of resentment and pure hate. My eyes slid off of her as if she weren’t even there. A moment later I followed Peterson down a confusing series of hallways, and then we were in an area I’d not been in before.

“This is the recovery room. Once Ray’s clear of anesthesia, he’ll be moved to ICU, probably somewhere near your sister. We’ll try to get them in the same unit.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Peterson stopped near a set of doors, where a hand sanitizer dispenser hung on the wall. “Sanitize your hands, please. There’s still significant risk of infection.”

I did as instructed, and then he led me past two doors, and opened one more.

Immediately I heard the loud rasp of a respirator. It was dim in the room, of course, though not dark. The room was lined with a series of monitors displaying Ray’s pulse and other vitals. And in the center, my husband. His head had been shaved and was swathed in bandages, as had his left arm and leg, both of which were immobilized. His eyes were closed, and a thick plastic tube had been jammed down his throat. Other tubes and wires ran everywhere.

I stood at the door, looking in, arms clasped across my stomach, my heart pounding. Ray’s skin was blanched almost white. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry and scratchy. All I’d wanted for hours was to see Ray. But now that I was in the room with him, I was ... terrified. With tiny, cautious steps, I approached him. And as I got closer, I started to cry uncontrollably, the tears running down my face, and I couldn’t stop. Because I’d never seen someone who looked so damaged. It didn’t look like Ray at all: instead, it was a ... a thinner, paler wax facsimile, as if someone had made a mold of Ray’s face and body and then slightly squeezed and melted it. As if they had made a mockery of his face, the sort of thing you might see in a roadside carnival or in a bad TV show, but not ever the sort of thing you would see in your husband’s face and eyes. His face was swollen beyond recognition, and flakes of blood scattered his face and neck on the few spots of exposed skin I could see through the plastic tubes and wires.

But somewhere inside, Ray was there. Somewhere inside, the man I loved, the man who I would have my future with, he was in there, fighting to survive. I knew it. I could feel it. Sometimes it almost felt like he was right there, whispering at my shoulder. And I was going to do everything I could to help him come back. Everything.

I reached out, my hand shaking, and touched his shoulder. And I whispered, “Ray ... I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know if you’re in there. But you need to know ... that I love you. I love you, and I want you home with me. Please come back, Ray. Please wake up.”

I took a deep breath, and I listened, and something in me just knew. I knew he could hear me. I knew he was trying. I struggled to pull my tears back, to show a brave face, because I knew that’s what Ray would want. And I leaned forward and gently kissed him on the forehead.

“I’m waiting for you, soldier,” I whispered in his ear. And then I stood and walked out of the room.

Leave my sister alone (Ray)

I felt a chill down my spine. Aching. Because I was standing on one side of my body, and Carrie was on the other, and she touched my shoulder and whispered, “Ray ... I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know if you’re in there. But you need to know ... that I love you. I love you, and I want you home with me. Please come back, Ray. Please wake up.”

It made me want to scream. It made me want to pull her into an embrace that would last forever, that neither one of us would let go. And then she leaned forward, looking closely at my face, and whispered almost silently in my ear, “I’m waiting for you, soldier.”

I couldn’t help it. I almost choked on a sob. At that moment I would have done anything, anything in the world, to be able to crawl back inside my body and wake up.

But I couldn’t. She turned and walked out of the room. Numb, I followed her. Doctor Peterson walked back to the intensive care unit with her, neither of them speaking. They walked quickly, businesslike, but I could tell from the tense, straight line of Carrie’s back that she was doing everything in her power to keep from throwing or breaking something. At the ICU, Doctor Peterson said, “I’m going to recommend that all of you go get some sleep. Visiting hours are long over, you can come back after 7 a.m. Get some rest.”

Carrie nodded, her eyes vacant. Peterson swiped his access card, and the door slid open. Carrie stepped inside just as a man briskly walked across the hall and followed