Chapter 7 - Awakening
The pediatric intensive care unit was quiet, bathed in the soft, soothing blue glow of nocturnal monitors.
When I pushed open the door to Noah’s room, my seven-year-old son was sitting up against a mound of fluffy hospital pillows, clutching a stuffed reindeer he had received from a volunteer nurse.
When he saw me walk through the door, his big brown eyes lit up.
"Daddy!" he whispered hoarsely, holding his arms out.
I rushed to the side of the bed, wrapping my arms around his small, fragile frame as gently as I could, burying my face in his soft hair. Tears—the first real tears I had shed since the nightmare began—finally broke free, spilling down my cheeks onto his hospital gown.
"I'm here, buddy," I choked out, holding him tight. "Daddy's right here. You're safe."
"Where's Mommy?" Noah asked innocently, looking around the room as if expecting her to walk through the door with a tray of cookies. "She promised we'd open presents today."
My heart shattered all over again, the jagged pieces scraping against my soul. I pulled back, looking into his trusting, innocent eyes, knowing I had to tell him the hardest truth a father would ever have to deliver.
I took his small hand in mine, rubbing my thumb across his knuckles.
"Noah," I said, my voice trembling. "Mommy had to go away on a very long journey. She loved you and Sophie more than anything in the whole world. And she's going to be watching over us from heaven, like a bright star."
Noah’s lower lip quivered. A tear slipped down his cheek, mirroring my own. "Is she never coming back?"
"Never in person, buddy," I whispered, kissing his forehead. "But she lives right here in our hearts. And we're going to take care of each other. I promise you that."
Across the hall in Room 312, Sophie was awake too. When I walked in, she was sipping apple juice through a bendy straw held by a kind-eyed night nurse.
When she saw me, her face brightened with a gap-toothed smile.
"Daddy! My tummy doesn't burn anymore," she announced proudly.
"I know, sweetheart," I smiled, sitting on the edge of her mattress and taking her small hand. "You're the toughest little girl in the whole world."
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"Can we go home soon?" she asked. "I miss my bed."
"Soon, baby girl," I promised, looking past the hospital window toward the first pale streaks of dawn breaking across the winter horizon. "Very soon."
