Touch and go.
The words whirl around in my head as I pace the corridor, desperate to be with Ava. If not for John holding me back, I would have burst through the doors into the operating room just to threaten the doctors with their life if they don’t save her. Her parents have remained quiet and in shock, sitting on the hard plastic chairs in the corridor, Joseph comforting his wife each time the tears creep up on her and she falls apart. With each second that passes with no news, the ache in my heart intensifies. Such a deep ache.
I stop pacing and fall back against a wall, looking up to the tubular lighting of the corridor. She’s been in there for hours. How much longer will they be? What are they doing that’s taking so much time?
A hand lands on my shoulder, and Joseph offers a weak smile. ‘Kate’s just texted. The twins are fine. She and Sam have been vague with them until we know what’s going on. Kate said she’d keep them overnight and take them to school in the morning. I think it’s best to try and keep things as normal as possible for now.’
I nod, a barrage of guilt grabbing me. My thoughts have been so consumed with worry for Ava, I’ve hardly thought about the kids. What they must be thinking. How they must be feeling.
‘Thanks, Joseph.’
‘Are you going to call them?’
Call them? Speak to them? I can’t trust my voice to remain strong, and if I did, what would I say? ‘I’ll text them.’
He nods, understanding. ‘Elizabeth and I are going to get some fresh air and drinks. Do you want some water?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Get him some water.’ John intervenes, and I don’t argue. I don’t have the strength.
After Ava’s parents have left us, John drags me over to a chair and forces me down to the seat. I land with a thud and feel immediately restless again. I need someone to come and tell me what the fuck is going on.
‘She’ll be all right.’ John’s usually booming voice is soft and reassuring, though I take no reassurance from it. He didn’t see the blood, her pale face, the wreck that was her car.
I drop my elbows to my knees and bury my face in my palms. ‘She has to be, John. Because if I don’t have Ava, then I may as well be dead, too.’
‘Stop that, you stupid motherfucker.’ He physically shakes me by the shoulders. ‘You need to be strong. For the kids and Ava. Are you listening to me?’ His voice gets louder until it’s back to its usual penetrating rumble.
I nod. It’s pathetic. But before I can respond, the doors to the operating room swing open and I’m up out of my seat like lightning.
‘Doctor.’ My heart starts racing, my stomach doing somersaults.
‘Mr Ward, I’m Dr Peters.’ His expression is solemn. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He points to the chair I’ve just vacated.
‘No.’ I refuse point-blank. ‘I don’t need to sit down.’ I hold my breath, begging to God that I really don’t need to sit down. That what he’s about to tell me won’t rip my world apart, and therefore rip me apart.
The doctor relents easily, and John gets up, coming to stand close beside me. He’s preparing. He’s preparing to catch me when I collapse. ‘Mr Ward, Ava has had a rather nasty blow to the head that has caused severe swelling on her brain.’
I stare at the doctor’s mouth moving, his words coming slowly and clearly, each one stabbing into my flesh.
‘A nasty cut to her leg severed one of her main arteries, too. Between that and her head injury, she’s lost nearly eighty per cent of her blood volume, so we’re working hard to replace it in a series of transfusions over the next twenty-four hours. Right now, she’s stable but in critical condition. We’ll do another CT scan in the morning to see if there is any improvement, but the extent of the damage will only be determined . . .’ He fades off, clearing his throat. ‘When she comes around,’ he finishes meekly, and I just know he held back from saying if. If she comes around. My dark world becomes darker, my aching heart clenching painfully. ‘The rest of her injuries are pretty superficial. The odd laceration here and there, and X-rays have confirmed no broken bones. It seems her head took the worst.’
My mind struggles to absorb the influx of information. ‘Damage,’ I whisper. ‘You said damage. You mean brain damage?’
‘I can’t rule it out, Mr Ward. Ava is being transferred to the ICU.’ Just as he tells me that, the doors open again and two porters, along with a nurse, push a huge hospital bed into the corridor.
I cough on nothing, a low sob forcing me to cover my mouth.
‘Motherfucker,’ John breathes, shocked, his arm coming up around my shoulders to hold me upright. ‘She’s going to be all right,’ he says again, but this time I can tell he doesn’t really believe it. How could he? I can barely see her past all the tubes, wires and machinery. But what I can see makes my heart slow to the point I think it might stop. My beautiful girl is grey, the blood loss obvious. My strong, feisty wife looks weak. So small and frail. She looks as broken as I feel. I have the fight of my life on my hands.
And I’m feeling like I’m on the cusp of the greatest loss I could ever face.