Chapter 5 - The ICU Waiting Room
The private wing of Saint Jude’s Hospital smelled of floor wax, sharp antiseptic, and old coffee.
It was nine o'clock at night. Outside the sixth-floor glass windows, the city lights flickered through a steady, freezing drizzle.
Ethan sat on a low, vinyl-covered sofa outside Room 604. He was still wearing his tuxedo trousers and a white dress shirt, the collar unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled past his forearms. His knuckles were bruised, stained with dark oil and dried blood from shattering the car window, but he refused to let the nurses bandage them.
On the couch beside him, wrapped in a thick fleece hospital blanket that swallowed her tiny frame, Daisy was fast asleep. Her head rested heavily against Ethan’s hip, one of her hands clutching his thumb so tightly her knuckles were white even in her sleep.
The heavy double doors at the end of the corridor swung open.
Dr. Aris Thorne, a lean, gray-haired oncologist with sharp, tired eyes, walked down the hall, pulling off his surgical mask and snapping a pair of latex gloves into the trash bin.
Ethan stood up immediately, moving with absolute care so he wouldn't disturb the sleeping girl attached to his hand.
"How is she?" Ethan asked, his voice low and raspy.
Dr. Thorne paused, looking at Ethan, then down at the sleeping child, before letting out a long, heavy sigh. He motioned for Ethan to step three paces down the hall, away from the door.
"She's stabilized for the night, Mr. Cole," Dr. Thorne began, his tone quiet and measured. "Her blood sugar was critically low, her core body temperature was dangerously hypothermic when you brought her in, and her white blood cell count is practically nonexistent."
"The cancer," Ethan said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "What stage?"
"Stage four metastatic breast cancer," Dr. Thorne said gently. "It spread to her liver and bones roughly six months ago. She was receiving low-grade palliative care at a public clinic in Vermont, but according to her medical charts, she stopped treatment entirely eight weeks ago."
Ethan felt a surge of violent rage and grief slam into his chest. "Why? Why would she stop treatment?"
"Because she couldn't afford it," Dr. Thorne replied simply. "And because she knew the advanced chemo was only buying her weeks, not years. She used the last of her savings to buy a train ticket down here and hire a private investigator to find out where your wedding was being held."
Ethan turned his head toward the small glass window of Room 604.
Inside, Clara lay beneath three heated blankets, a maze of clear plastic IV tubes connected to her thin arms, a heart monitor emitting a slow, rhythmic beep... beep... beep in the dim amber light.
"Is she going to die, Doctor?" Ethan asked, the words tearing out of his throat like broken glass.
Dr. Thorne set a heavy, comforting hand on Ethan’s shoulder. "I won't lie to you, Mr. Cole. Her body is exhausted. She has fought this for three years with almost no support system. But she survived the hypothermia tonight, which my head nurse called an absolute miracle. She is a remarkably strong woman."
The doctor looked toward the sleeping little girl on the sofa.
"She kept whispering her daughter's name while we were inserting the central line," Dr. Thorne added softly. "She kept saying, 'I have to make sure Daisy is safe. I have to see Ethan.' You give her a reason to fight, Mr. Cole. That matters more than any medicine I can put in an IV bag."
Before Ethan could answer, the elevator doors at the end of the hallway opened with a sharp, electronic chime.
Three people stepped out onto the quiet floor.
Senator Thomas Hart walked first, his face thunderous, flanked by two men in heavy dark overcoats. Behind them stood Eleanor Cole—Ethan’s mother—wearing a fur coat, her silver hair styled to perfection, her eyes cold and calculating as she swept her gaze over the hospital wing.
May you like
Ethan’s blood turned to liquid fire.
He gently unclasped Daisy’s tiny fingers from his thumb, covered her with the fleece blanket, and turned to face his past.
