Chapter 22—Maddox
During the twenty-minute drive to the hospital, I don’t move my eyes from her face. She still hasn’t woken, and even though I’m being told that she is stable, there won’t be anything that can soothe my soul until I see those honey-wheat eyes. I need to see that she is going to be okay. They can tell me until they’re blue in the face—until my angel comes back to me, I’m not leaving her side.
They stabilize her arm and leg, get her IV set up, and monitor her heart rate on the ride. The whole time, my eyes never leave her face. I can feel the paramedics moving around, checking her vitals, and communicating with the hospital about her condition.
I sit there like a worthless blob and wait.
“Sir, do you require any medical attention?” one of them asks.
I shake my head, not willing to move from my vigil.
“Are you—”
“I’m fine,” I stress.
The rest of the trip is a blur. The doors open when we arrive and the nurses work together with the EMT duo to move her into the hospital. When we reach the double doors, I’m stopped with a small hand against my chest. I almost plow right through her on my quest to stay by Emmy’s side.
“Sir, you can’t go any farther. If you will follow me, I’ll take you to the waiting room.”
She has to be fucking insane to think I’m going to just let them take Emmy.
“No.”
“I’m sorry, but you have no choice. It’s hospital policy. I understand you’re worried, but your wife is in good hands.”
My heart seizes when she calls Emmy my wife, and right when I see the doors close, the severity of the situation crashes into me and I crumble to the floor.
She doesn’t move. I can see her stupid, yellow Crocs and I focus on them like a lifeline.
“Is there someone I can call for you, sir?” she whispers, crouching down to give me her kind eyes.
“I need my… I need Emmy,” I whimper, the sound so foreign to my ears. My throat is on fire and I have to work double time to stifle the sobs that want to bubble up.
Man the fuck up, Maddox. Emmy needs you to stay strong.
She gives me the time I need to get my shit together and then offers her hand to help me stand. I wave her off and stand—or attempt to—before my leg protests my weight and I fall to my knees.
“Fuck!” I exclaim, my outburst echoing through the halls.
A few other staff members look over at me with concern. One steps forward to offer Little Miss Yellow Crocs some help, but she waves him off.
“Are you injured?” Her voice is low, controlled, and clinical. Her worry for my mental stability is clearly being trumped now that physically I’m falling to fucking pieces.
“Old injury that I aggravated,” I hedge and go to stand again. I cringe when I try to give my leg some weight. I need to get off of it, get the prosthetic off so whatever damage I did tonight doesn’t get worse.
“May I check?”
I shake my head and pull my pant leg up, showing her without words what she needs to know.
She gives me a small smile and a nod. “Come with me. Let’s get you off your feet somewhere comfortable until the doctor finishes up with your wife and comes to find you, okay?”
She leads me to a small breakroom of sorts with a couch in the center of the room, some tables and vending machines off to the far corner, and a scattering of lockers on the other.
“I’ll let the doctors know where you are so that they can come and fill you in. No one will bother you here, and if you need to make some calls to family, just use the phone on the end table next to the couch. I’ll go get some ice and lotion for your stump. No sense in having some macho-man issues when you need to make sure to avoid exasperating your skin further. Do you feel like you need anything else?”
I shake my head, waiting to hear some sort of disgust about my disability, but it never comes.
“Be right back.”
I move towards the couch, drop down, and lean my head back. I should be calling everyone—getting them here—but I feel so hopelessly lost that I don’t even know which way is up.
I roll up my pants and go through the movements to get the pressure off my stump. When I get my leg off, the skin is slightly irritated and red, but luckily, there aren’t any sores. A little ice and I should be good to go by the time Emmy needs me.
The nurse comes back, gives me a cool gel pack, and hands me some lotion. I rub it liberally on my skin before throwing the cool pack down.
“You seem to have it covered without my help,” she laughs.
“Been doing it long enough,” I say in a monotone.
“Right. I know you aren’t going to listen to me, but you really should keep your weight off it—even if it’s just for the night.”
“With all due respect—”
“Tracey,” she supplies.
“Well, with all due respect, Tracey, I don’t really give a flying fuck about my damn stump right now. As soon as I can get to Emmy, the better. She doesn’t need to be alone.”
She gives me a soft smile, her blue eyes shining with compassion. “I understand. My husband lost his leg in Afghanistan, so I can respect your pride when it comes to your body, sir, but you can check it at the door. You military men are all the same,” she laughs, and I narrow my eyes. “It’s written all over you, so it wasn’t too hard to guess. You know your body better than I do, but I can promise you this—I’m not judging you and no one else will. You should be proud of everything you’ve overcome and not look at it as such a burden. And before you ask, that’s written all over you too.”
I don’t speak. No need to. I let her words sink in and, for the first time, think of my injury as a badge of what I’ve overcome. Could she be right?
“I’ll let that simmer while I go check on your wife.” She pats my thigh and leaves the room.
Some of the ice-cold fear holding me down weakens from just thinking about Emmy as my wife. When they said it earlier, I didn’t do shit to correct them. The thought of her walking down the aisle towards me, her body covered in white lace, her eyes full of love, and that heart-stopping smile all for me does something to me.
It takes that flame of hope—the one I’ve been feeling for months, afraid I would somehow extinguish the fire if I just allowed myself a second to believe—to flicker a few times before it starts to warm my body with its warm glow.
We’re going to get past this. She is going to get past this, and I vow to never let a day go by without joining the fight she’s been warring on her own for us.
I’ll stand by her side until I’m no longer wanted—and then, if that day ever comes, I’ll throw her over my shoulder and carry her the rest of the way.
This is my second chance. The time that I man up and take a chance at everything being blessed with her love could bring me.